Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  There was a sudden film in Alison’s eyes. Softly, she said, “I do love him. I’m just scared.…”

  She stopped abruptly; it was that moment, the flash of emotional defenselessness, which Sam, waiting, felt like a caught breath.

  Leaning closer, Sam said, “I know, Alison. I understand.…”

  She blinked, surprised at the nearness of her face to his, at the swirl of her emotions. “Sam…”

  Swiftly he closed the distance.

  Her lips were thin, trembling, neither yielding nor resistant. Sam felt the stirring of his penis, the beating of his own heart.

  His tongue, licking her lips, slid inside Alison Taylor’s mouth.

  As if by reflex, her arms came around him. He kissed her desperately, hungrily, reaching for her breast, his now. As he felt it, small beneath the large palm of his hand, he imagined her unfastening the back of her bra, looking into his face the way he saw her look at Tony.…

  “No.” Her back arched, rigid, and she twisted angrily away, eyes wide and staring into his. “No, damn you…”

  “Look…”

  Alison stood, rigid. “How stupid I was,” she said in anger. “It’s my fault, all right? So leave.”

  Sam sprang up, grasping her wrists. “I don’t want to. And you don’t want me to. You knew what was happening.…”

  “Maybe I did.” Her tone was level now, and she gazed at his hands on her wrists. “Maybe that makes me a real tease. Maybe I don’t deserve Tony at all. But at least you reminded me how much I really want him.…”

  “You wanted me.”

  Her eyes rose to his, steady and cold. “Don’t worry, Sam. I won’t tell him. As long as you leave now.”

  Sam’s fingers loosened. Slowly, firmly, Alison Taylor slipped her arms from his grasp.

  She turned, silent, opening the screen door to escape inside. He stood there, enraged, irresolute.

  Alison gazed at him through the door, suddenly still. Behind the wire gauze, she looked slender, beautiful, elusive. “I know you hate us both,” she said softly. “But which one do you love?”

  With a whisper, the door closed behind her, leaving Sam alone with his humiliation, his festering desire.

  * * *

  Sam was drunk. The image of Alison, the screen door between them, pulsed through the night.

  He could feel the heat in his temples, the sweat on his forehead. As he drove toward Taylor Park, the trees by the road appeared from nowhere, the white line on the macadam unspooled before his eyes.

  Jerking the wheel, he turned into Taylor Park. He could smell Sue’s perfume in the car.

  Slowly now, Sam eased into the parking lot, and stopped.

  He cranked down the window, inhaling the cool night air. With the motor off, the park seemed vast and silent, a place of darkness, mystery, vague shapes, deep longings.

  Somewhere in this cocoon, he imagined, Tony Lord and Alison Taylor wrestled with their own desires.

  For what seemed quite long, Sam was still. The picture of two bodies, close but hidden, haunted him. He drank from the fifth of whiskey.

  Driven by his imaginings, Sam stepped from the car, bottle clutched in his hand.

  The park enveloped him—trees, shadows, the sliver of a cloud-swept moon. His forehead felt feverish, chill. His footsteps were whispers in the fall-stunted grass.

  Where, he wondered, would Tony park? Sam and Sue had their grove of maples. But for Tony and Alison, Taylor Park was better, so close to her home that it gave them the last precious minutes before midnight, the last deep kiss, the last touch of a naked breast.

  If it was more than this, tonight, Tony would need shelter.

  Alone, almost soundless, Sam walked narrow-eyed across the open field. The only sounds were the deep rolling of the lake beyond, the rattle of wind through brittle leaves.

  Leaves.

  Tony, like Sam himself, would feel safest beneath a bower of trees.

  Sam felt his mind open up, become a map of his memory. He walked toward images he could not see.

  On the bluff above the lake was a grove of trees.

  Blind, he approached it, guided by the stirring of leaves. Then Sam saw tree trunks, gnarled branches. Stopping, he drew a breath.

  Amidst the trees was a darker shape, Tony’s car.

  Slowly, Sam stepped forward on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched against the cold. Five feet from the car, he stopped.

  The windows were fogged. Sam stood like a sentinal, outside the lovers’ world, listening for their cries. He heard nothing.

  The whiskey, raw in his throat, numbed his feeling of strangeness.

  Tiptoeing, he stood beside the car.

  A beam of light fell; the moon, breaking free of cloud cover, exposed childish lines amidst the vapor of the windows, backward letters.

  “I love you,” the lines said.

  As Sam leaned forward, his own breath obscuring the “I,” he read the line beneath it: “Me too.” Then, in a second sprinkle of moonlight, he saw them through the lines of Alison’s writing.

  They were silver profiles, moving together. The silhouette of Alison raised her mouth to Tony’s. Between her legs, for a fleeting instant, Sam could see the rise of Tony’s buttocks.

  He froze there, alone with the stirring of his body, the pain of his exclusion. He saw Alison’s lips move, Tony’s wrist as he raised it to his face, checking the time. Then the vapor of Sam’s breathing concealed them again.

  Slowly, Sam backed from the car. The luminous dial of his wristwatch read 11:42.

  Torn by jealousy and confusion, Sam retreated behind a tree. He leaned against the trunk, feeling the rough bark against his cheek, the chill mist of air in his lungs. Only the whiskey kept him warm.

  A car door opened.

  Startled, Sam saw two shadowy figures hurry from the car. With bare hands they wiped condensation from the rear window—the film of their own breaths, and Sam’s.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam heard her say, “I can go home that way too.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he answered.

  The shadows turned, hesitant. Then they slowly walked toward Sam. He dared not move, or make a sound.

  Muscles taut, he watched them.

  Five feet, four.

  Suddenly they paused. Sam held his breath. Had they turned, they would have seen him; had Sam reached out, he could have touched them.

  “Dark,” Tony whispered.

  Alison took his hand. “I know.”

  They started forward again, tentative. Two steps, then another.

  Sam moved from the trees, behind them.

  They stopped, as though they had heard his footsteps. Then they glanced at each other and began rushing across the open field toward Alison’s house. Their footfalls echoed in the dark.

  Drawn by the image of their lovemaking, Sam followed them.

  He did not hurry. Without a plan, he knew only that his steps, unlike theirs, must be silent.

  The sound of their footsteps faded.

  Sam continued across the pitch-black field, catlike on the balls of his feet. Then the moon slipped through the clouds again, lighting Tony and Alison. They were facing each other, barely visible beneath the copse of trees that shrouded Alison’s house, its roofline black and jagged against the muddy purple sky.

  Silent, Sam stopped moving.

  Though spoken softly, Alison’s words carried in the night. “We should stop.”

  Tony kissed her forehead. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  Alison shook her head. “It’s cold out,” she said softly. “You can keep the car warm.”

  Her voice was low, a woman’s. It coursed through Sam like whiskey.

  Alison kissed Tony deeply, longingly, her body pressed to his. And then clouds swept across the moon again, and there was nothing but her muted voice.

  “We just used my final minute,” Sam heard her say. “See you in about fifteen.”

  She was defying her parents for Tony Lord, sneaking
from the house to open her legs for him again. Like Sam’s mother did for Coach Jackson. The taste of whiskey on Sam’s tongue was bitter now.

  In the distance, he saw Alison.

  She stood beneath the light of the back porch, waving. In his confusion, Sam felt she waved to him.

  The light went off. The back door, closing, was a whisper.

  Sam heard footsteps again, Tony’s.

  Sam stood there in the dark, bottle in hand. Perhaps if Tony saw him, Sam could offer Tony the drink he had refused.

  But Sam could not see anyone. The sound of Tony’s footsteps grew clearer, closer. The sweat chilled on Sam’s face.

  The footfalls faded, and there was nothing but emptiness. Sam was alone.

  He tipped the whiskey bottle to his lips.

  Fifteen minutes, and Alison would be out again. Sam wiped his mouth.

  Approaching the house, his own footfalls were silent. He imagined sitting in her love seat, rocking ever so slightly, the creak of its frame startling Alison as she stepped out from the house. “My turn,” Sam would whisper.

  He stopped, gazing at the back porch, ten feet away.

  It would be enough to watch her, Sam decided, to know what he could have done. The whiskey fantasies danced in his brain: Sam, watching two silhouettes move together, then taking the place of one of them.

  The last swallow of whiskey burned his throat.

  Walking toward the edge of the bluff, he hurled the empty bottle toward the water. He stumbled, caught himself.

  As he felt her breast, small beneath the large palm of his hand, Sam imagined her unfastening the back of her bra, looking into his face the way he saw her look at Tony …

  Perhaps he should leave, Sam thought.

  Turning, he froze: framed in the screen door was Alison Taylor.

  Behind the wire gauze, she looked slender, beautiful, elusive. “I know you hate us both,” she said softly. “But which one do you love?”

  The porch creaked beneath her feet.

  Sam was utterly still. As she stepped from the porch onto the grass, he could no longer see her. Her footsteps made no sound.

  It would be fate that decided for them, Sam knew suddenly. If she did not see him, he would let her pass, let her go to Tony. But if she found him in the night, it was because this had to be.

  Her steps came closer.

  Appearing, Alison was a slender form again, her face not yet visible. She did not stop, or turn. In another few feet, she would reach him.

  Five feet away, he guessed, now four. He felt his own desire stirring.

  The sky opened, and moonlight fell again.

  Sam heard the sharp intake of her breath. Then the light revealed her china face, the widening of her eyes.

  “Hi,” Sam said.

  The cry died in her throat.

  He could see everything so clearly now. Her relief, then the return of fear. The way, so much like Tony, that she tried to appear calm, unruffled. Her awareness, as she drew a deeper breath, of the whiskey smell that came from him. Even her decision not to question him.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Alison said.

  Her voice was thin, but level. Softly, Sam answered, “I watched you in the car with him.”

  The simple words caused her to stare in fright. Sam could feel the racing of his own heart: the way that Alison straightened, head high to retain her dignity, insulted and excited him. “Then you know how much I love him,” she said with equal simplicity. Voice quiet, so her parents could not hear, but shaking now.

  She was still going to Tony, Sam realized. Even with his face inches from hers.

  “Just imagine,” he said softly, “that I’m Tony.” Their breaths met in the air.

  His tongue, licking her lips, slid inside Alison Taylor’s mouth.…

  “No,” she said, turning her face. “I don’t want you.…”

  Her back arched, rigid, and she twisted angrily away, eyes wide and staring into his.…

  Sam did not know what to do. He was paralyzed by his cowardice, his fury.

  Alison opened her mouth, as though to scream.

  Sam covered her mouth with his hand, the blood pounding in his head. It was too late, he told himself, too late. The fresh terror in her eyes ignited his excitement, his loathing of his own humiliation. She tried to bite his hand.…

  Sam felt a spurt of pain. He saw a flash of light, and then rage broke through the last barriers.

  “Yes,” he insisted in a drunk’s savage voice. “Yes…”

  Jerking Alison’s arm behind her back, he pushed her to the ground, one hand still across her mouth.

  She was kneeling now, her back to him, writhing with anguish and her need to breathe. His palm was damp with her spittle; the rush of air through her nose grazed the back of his fingers. As he tried to turn her over, Alison lurched forward, sprawling face first on the grass. She lay there, stiff, refusing to give him what he wanted. His hand stifled her mouth.

  Between his fingers, Alison gasped, “I’d die first.…”

  His hand clamped her mouth and jaw. With a surge of hatred, he jerked her dress up with his free hand, then grasped the elastic border of her panties.

  No stockings. Nothing in the way but nylon.

  He wrenched the panties below her buttocks. As her pelvis pressed against the ground, resisting, he felt the round softness beneath his fingers.

  “I know you hate us both,” she said. “But which one do you love?”

  His hand clutched her throat. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

  With the trembling fingers of one hand, he freed himself. He could feel the pulse in Alison’s throat, hear the sound of her choking, air-depleted, too feeble to be heard.

  Between her legs, Sam could see the rise of Tony’s buttocks.…

  “We’ll do it this way,” he told her.

  When she felt him push against her, Alison stiffened, crying out. The sound died beneath his smothering hand.

  She shivered as he pushed inside her, and then he stilled her with both hands, his hips thrusting harder, deeper. Her throat trembled with silent sobbing.

  Sam’s eyes shut, and the world went dark.

  He clutched her tight, as if to save his life. Her deep, convulsive shudder became his; as he climaxed, filled with primal joy and terrible fear, his teeth clenched against the sound of his own outcry. Her tears were his as well.

  She was still now.

  Sam stared down at the joining of their bodies, overtaken by astonishment. The only sounds were his own ragged gasps.

  Pulling himself free, he covered her with her skirt. “Alison,” he whispered.

  She did not answer. Then he rolled her on her side, and saw what he had done.

  Nausea overcame him. Kneeling beside her, he writhed in agony, numbing shame.

  He stood, staggering and stupid, zipping his pants. Alison lay at his feet.

  Reeling, Sam stumbled back from her.

  “Alison…”

  Tony’s voice came to him, as if in a dream. Turning, Sam had no sense of distance, place. The night was a morass.

  A branch cracked beneath his feet.

  “Alison…”

  Sam began to run.

  Ahead of him was a shadow. Sam knew the shape and size of it as well as he knew his own.

  Sam felt his soul burst open.

  He veered, running wildly through the dark, hoping that the shadow would not catch him. Sweat ran down his face.

  Ahead, appearing as a mirage, was his car.

  Pausing, he fumbled for his keys, got inside. The motor started. The drive home was sensory fragments—headlights, shadows, a siren in the distance, the scent of Sue’s perfume.

  His house was silent, dark. He climbed the stairs, to the room next to his parents’, and crawled into his bed, still dressed. The night was surreal, a dream.…

  In the morning, Sam awoke, his skull throbbing with whiskey, his stomach raw, his brain a swirl of doubt and horror
. He reeled to his bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Amidst the sound of his own retching, there was one certainty Sam clung to.

  It wasn’t him.

  FIVE

  Tony felt too much to speak.

  Looking into his face, Sam took one step backward, then another. “It wasn’t me.…”

  Alison’s face was flushed, her mouth contorted. The eyes that had held such love for him were wide and empty, pinpointed with red starbursts.…

  “No, Sam.” Tony’s voice was very quiet. “It wasn’t me.”

  Sam flinched, and was silent.

  Tony felt cold metal against his head, trembling with its own life. “You animal—what have you done to her?”

  Were he holding a gun, Tony realized, he would kill Sam without thinking. He could feel the weight in his hand, the tension of his finger on the trigger, so sensitive to the touch.

  “Nothing matters,” Sam repeated softly. “It wouldn’t matter to me if you’d killed her.…”

  Sam’s hand rested on the nightstand now. The drawer was slightly ajar.

  “And it still matters,” Tony said softly. “Even more. Because you murdered Marcie Calder.”

  Sam’s fingers curled at the edge of the drawer.

  Keep calm, Tony told himself. He watched the movements of Sam’s hand, the nervous twitch of his fingers.

  “Was it like with Alison?” Tony asked.

  For a moment, Sam’s eyes shut.

  She had pale skin, straight black hair, which fell across her cheekbones … as she bent over the cinder track, Sam admired the sinew of her thighs, the tightness of her bottom.…

  “No,” Sam answered. And then he caught himself, his blue eyes cloudy with self-doubt. “Not until the end…”

  * * *

  On their last night, they drove to the park again. Filled with the glow of bourbon, Sam felt anxious, eager. Next to him, Marcie was quiet.

  Tonight he would fulfill his deepest imaginings. When she had asked to see him, her voice taut with emotion, Sam knew that she remembered her promise to him. He had kept on drinking just to help the hours pass.

  They parked in the grove of trees where Tony had parked with Alison. When she turned to him, mouth parting, Sam kissed her hard. She seemed to start at the whiskey taste of him. She looked irresolute, disconcerted.

  “It’s all right,” Sam said softly. “I can make it all right.”