He reached up over the bed, and turned off the light.
Whenever he thought of that night, he didn’t want to see his father. And if the light was off, his father might not come into the room. Especially if he pretended to be asleep, eyes closed, breathing deep.
How long did it take, to go to heaven?
How long did it take to come back from heaven?
He’d asked his mother about it, once. She had smiled, and patted his hand, and then looked off, the way she did when she was trying to say something so it wouldn’t hurt his feelings, or explain something he might not understand. Finally she’d said, “It’s instantaneous.”
Instantaneous …
He’d remembered the word, and sometimes said it to himself. He knew what it meant, because it meant the same as instantly.
So in a second, only a second, someone—his mother—could travel from her bedroom, where his father now slept, all the way up to heaven. It no time, really. That’s what his mother had really said: no time.
And then she could have traveled back—in no time. Instantaneously. She could have come back, and she could have seen everything. And heard everything that his father said to the sheriff, and the sheriff said to his father. She could have heard him talking to the sheriff, too. Invisible, able to float through the air, probably able to see through walls, his mother would have—
From downstairs, he could hear the sounds of voices. His father’s voice, and Maria’s voice. Soon Maria would go to her room over the garage. And then his father might come up the stairs.
Eyes still closed, he settled himself, cleared his throat. Sleeping. Soon, sleeping. But pretending, now. Worried, and pretending.
Just as, that night, he’d had to pretend.
At first, he had been asleep. Until he woke up on the couch downstairs, the last thing he remembered was the sway of the station wagon and the headlights of passing cars on the freeway. But then he was lying on the couch, downstairs. He’d been lying on his right side, his face turned to the back of the sofa. So that, in the dim light, in the half-darkness, really, no one could see whether or not he was asleep, even if he’d opened his eyes. So when—
From the stairway, he heard the sound of footsteps. His father, coming up the stairs. Coming slowly, tiredly. Sadly, maybe.
As the sound of footsteps came closer, he seemed to hear the voices he’d heard that night: his father’s voice, and the other voice. Footsteps, coming closer down the stairs. They’d been—
“John?” It was his father’s voice, now. Just his father’s voice. The other voice had—
“John.” His father’s hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “John, wake up.”
He opened his eyes, blinked, dug his knuckles into his eyes. Had he been sleeping, after all? Dreaming? Was he still on the couch, in the living room? Or was he—
The light over his bed came on, shining harshly in his eyes. He blinked again, turned away.
“Awww—”
“John, come on. Wake up. Sit up, John.” His father was tugging at his armpits. “Come on, wake up. It’s only a quarter to nine.”
Yawning, he sat up in the bed, leaned forward while his father pulled up the pillow against the headboard, then leaned back. It was like he was sick. Like he was in bed with a bad cold, and his father was taking care of him. Now his father was smiling, sitting on the foot of his bed. Just like he was sick.
“Did you and Al go fishing?”
He nodded.
“Catch anything?”
“Al caught one. Not me.” He yawned again.
“Well, maybe tomorrow we’ll go fishing. We could try the Petaluma River. How about it?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. Then he thought he should say it again: “Sure.”
His father nodded, then allowed the smile to fade. So it was serious, then. Whatever it was, it was serious. He could see it in his father’s eyes, hear it in his voice:
“I—ah—wanted to talk to you, John. I—ah—I’ve got to do it, there isn’t any choice. It’s—ah—it’s about when your—ah—when your mother died. It’s—ah—” His father broke off, frowned, settled himself more firmly, still sitting at the foot of the bed, left leg drawn up, so they faced each other, right leg over the side of the bed, foot touching the floor. “It’s about how much you—what you remember, about that—that night. I want you to tell me everything that you remember. Do you understand?”
As he heard his father say it, the images returned: strange cars arriving in the dead of night. Cars with flashing lights. Police cars. Strange men in the house. Heavy footsteps, hushed voices. Men going up the stairs. Men carrying guns, men carrying boxes, and cameras. Whenever the strangers looked at him, their eyes went soft, as if they were embarrassed. Footsteps overhead, in the big bedroom. After he’d talked to the sheriff, his father had taken him to Al’s house. They’d whispered together, his father and Al. Then his father had walked back to the big house. Gone. So it had been Al—Al had been the one to tell him what happened. There’d been a burglar, Al had said. A murderer. There’d been a lady with Al, a stranger, wearing Al’s bathrobe. She’d made hot chocolate while—
“John?” It was his father’s voice. For a moment it was confusing, being here with his father and still thinking about Al and the lady and the mug of steaming chocolate, all of it so clear that it seemed real.
“John, tell me.” A pause. Then, more firmly: “I want to know. Tell me what you remember, John.”
“But I—” He shook his head. “I can’t. I mean, it—it’s all blurred.”
“Do you remember getting from the car to the house?”
“Mommy—” He broke off, swallowed. Mommy. It was the first time he’d said the word, out loud, since that night. Summer would soon be over, and he’d never said the word.
“Yes …?” Fingers tightening on the bed clothing, eyes bright, his father was leaning forward. “Yes?”
After the first word, the first time he said it, the word came easier now: “Mommy carried me, I think. She—” Suddenly his throat closed. He coughed, swallowed, blinked against sudden tears.
“Go ahead, John. Go ahead.”
“She put me on the couch, I think.”
“You think? Aren’t you sure?” His father’s voice had gone hard. His eyes had gone hard, too.
He tried to answer, but could only shake his head.
“It sounds like Mommy carried you inside, put you on the couch. Then you went back to sleep.”
“I—I guess so.”
“Mommy was bringing in the suitcases, while you were sleeping.”
“I—I—” His eyes were filling. He began to shake his head.
“John …” His father came closer, reached out, touched his thigh. His voice was softer, now: “John, I know this is hard for you. But it—it’s necessary. If you don’t talk about it, then it’ll fester inside you, like an infection. Do you understand?”
He snuffled, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his pajamas. If his mother were here, she’d tell him not to do it, wipe his nose like that.
“Do you understand?”
“An infection …” He nodded. “Like my foot, that time.”
“That’s right.” On his thigh, his father’s fingers were tightening. “That’s exactly right. And an infection of the mind can be worse than any other kind. So that’s why you’ve got to tell me. You’ve got to tell me everything you remember, from the time you came into the house to the time I woke you up.”
“I—” He swallowed, dug his knuckles into his eyes. Then: “I remember there were voices. That’s the first thing I remember. Voices, from upstairs. Loud voices.”
“Wh—whose voices?”
“Mommy’s was one, I think. But I’m not sure.”
“Were there other voices? Someone else’s voice, besides Mommy’s?” As he asked the question, his father’s voice wavered, as if his own question frightened him.
“I—” Sharply, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
/>
“All right, never mind about that, now.” His father drew a deep, shaky breath. A long, silent moment passed, while they looked at each other. Then, speaking very slowly, very distinctly, his father asked, “What happened then? Did you get up, get off the couch?”
“N—no. Not until you told me.”
“All right. Good. So—” His father licked his lips, leaned forward. On his thigh, the fingers tightened again, uncomfortable now, almost painful. “So then what’d you hear? After you first heard the voices, then what’d you hear?”
“I heard you, coming down the stairs. I—I think I went back to sleep, first. But then I think I heard you. I heard you talking.”
The pressure on his leg momentarily tightened again, then abruptly ceased as his father suddenly drew back. Now his father’s face had changed, as if a stranger was there, beneath the flesh. A frightened stranger—the same stranger he’d seen at the funeral, so very long ago.
He’d known it, known he shouldn’t have said it. From the first, that very first moment, lying in the darkness, pretending to be asleep, fearful of a presence he couldn’t escape, he’d known how dangerous it would be, to—
“Who was I talking to, John?” The question was asked very softly, very carefully.
“I—I don’t know.”
How much longer would it go on? Already, his father had drawn back, drawn away. First his mother, gone. And now his father, suddenly a stranger.
“Was it—” A pause. One final pause. Then, still very softly: “Was it a man’s voice? Or—” Another pause. “Or was it a woman’s?”
“It—it was a woman’s voice.”
“Did you recognize it, this voice?”
He shook his head.
“But it was a woman’s voice. You’re sure of that.”
He nodded again. Why couldn’t he speak? He wanted to speak, wanted to say something. But he couldn’t.
“Did you see her, this woman?” His father’s voice sounded discouraged, as if he knew what the answer would be, and didn’t want to hear it.
“No.”
“Why not? We—” Quickly, his father caught himself. Then, just as quickly: “You heard her, you said. Why didn’t you see her?”
“Because I—because I wasn’t looking.”
“You were awake, you said.”
“Y—yes.”
“If you were awake, then your eyes were open. Isn’t that right?”
“I—I don’t—I can’t—” How could he say it? How should he say it?
“Your eyes were open—you were awake—but you didn’t see anything.” Now his father’s voice was hard. And his eyes, too. His eyes were very hard. “Your eyes were open the whole time?”
“Yes …”
“What about me? Do you remember seeing me?”
“I—” How could he answer? How could he say it?
But now his father was nodding. Meaning that no answer was necessary. Whatever it was, everything had been said. Now, slowly, the hardness was leaving his father’s face. His father looked sad, now. Sad and discouraged.
Gently testing him, his father spoke quietly: “I don’t understand. You were awake, you knew I was there. Why didn’t you look at me?”
“I—” Suddenly he felt the anger, burning his throat. His voice rose. “I don’t know. I was—maybe I was still asleep. Half-asleep, anyhow.”
Gravely, his father was shaking his head. It had been the wrong answer, then. “That doesn’t make sense, John. You said your eyes were open. So you—”
“It does make sense.” Suddenly his body was twisting. He was turned away from his father, face buried in the pillow. His eyes were brimming, hot with tears. His voice was muffled by the pillow. “I was too asleep. And I was scared, too. Scared.”
And then the tears came. First the tears, then finally his father’s hand on his shoulder, to comfort him. That touch, so long remembered.
So very long remembered.
8:30 P.M.
DROPPING HIS EYES TO the window of the apartment, Bernhardt used a penlight to consult a small notebook, lifted the cellular phone from its cradle and dialed Janice Hale’s number: a small, discreet, very expensive residential hotel on Nob Hill. What would it be like, never to worry about money, about making ends meet? Janice had estimated Connie’s wealth at twenty-five million, even though the winery was losing money. Janice, with no winery to support, must be richer than her sister had been.
But, for Janice, there was no husband, no children. And now no sister. She was—
“The Stratton.” It was a cultivated voice, perfectly suited to the hotel’s aura.
“Suite six-oh-one, please.”
“Six-oh-one. Yes.”
As Bernhardt waited while Janice’s phone was ringing, he saw Price’s blonde girlfriend move into the illuminated rectangle of the big picture window. Even at a distance, Bernhardt could see the supple line of her torso, the swell of her breasts. Now she raised her arms above her head, enhancing the spectacle. Even with darkness falling the night was hot, at least ninety. With both hands, she pulled her long, loose hair away from her neck. Was she wearing anything beneath her blue T-shirt? With luck, he might soon know. Or, at least, conjecture.
“Yes?”
“Janice, it’s Alan.”
“Ah—” Her voice shifted, lifted. Bernhardt recognized the inflection. It was the excitement of the chase. Rich or poor, amateur or professional, they all responded to the hunt. It was, Bernhardt had decided, bred in the bone, a throwback to life in the cave. “What happened?” she was asking. “I drove by your car, but I didn’t want to stop.”
“That wasn’t the game plan.”
“I know. How’d it go?”
“I think,” Bernhardt said, “that we could be on to something. I’m not sure, but I think he might be spooked.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just a few minutes after you left the winery he got in his car and drove to San Rafael. He visited a woman, here. He got here about five o’clock, and left a little after seven. When he left the winery, just picking up on his body language, I had the feeling that he was agitated.”
“Are you in San Rafael now?”
“Yes. I had to make a choice, either follow him or stay here. I decided to stay here, and talk to her. She went out for a while, after Price left. But she’s back now, and I’m going to see what she says. What about you? Just watching, it looked like the two of you were really going at it.”
“We were going at it. That son of a bitch, I’m sure he’s hiding something. I’m sure of it.”
“You may be right, Janice. You just may be right.”
“Will you call me, later?”
“Sure. Listen, one reason I’m phoning, I’d like to call in someone else, to help me. I think it’s about that time if we’re going to get a handle on this. Right now, for instance, I’d like to be at the winery, assuming that’s where Price went. I could hop over that fence again, when it gets dark, and use a listening device to find out what he’s doing, who he’s calling. But if I get into that kind of thing, I’d like someone to back me up, stand lookout—someone who’s a professional. I’d also like to know more about Price’s beautiful blonde girlfriend. And I can’t be in two places at once.”
“Do you have anyone in mind, to help?”
“Yes. His name’s C. B. Tate. He’s very large, and very black, and very, very tough. He’s also very smart. He grew up in the projects, and got into trouble when he was young. But he’s honest, and he’s reliable. And he’s very talented, a natural actor. Years ago, when I first came out here from New York, and started directing little theater, I did The Emperor Jones.”
“And he played Emperor Jones?”
“He sure did. Brilliantly. He was on parole, at the time. Being rehabilitated.”
She chuckled. “God, two actors, for private investigators.”
“A lot of investigating is acting. Telling lies, in other words, that sound like the truth.”
&n
bsp; Once more she chuckled. “I thought that’s what politicians did.”
Appreciatively, he laughed. God, she was quick.
“Of course, get him. If you trust him, get him.”
“He charges the same as I do, forty dollars an hour, while he’s actually working. I add ten dollars to his time, for markup.”
“Alan. I told you once, it’s not the money. You know it’s not the money.”
“Okay. I’ll call him. I’d better get off now. How late can I call you?”
“As late as you want.”
“Good. Talk to you later, then.” He broke the connection, checked the notebook again, then punched out the number for C. B. Tate. On the fifth ring, Tate’s answering machine kicked in, and his rich baritone announced that he would return the call as soon as possible—and please wait for the beep.
“C.B., this is Alan Bernhardt. I’ve got a job for you. It’s surveillance, good solid client. So call me at—”
“Hey, Alan. What’s happening?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“Surveillance … that’s not my favorite sport, you realize that, don’t you? I mean, I sometimes fall asleep, you know?”
“Suit yourself.”
“This good, solid client. Tell me more.”
“She’s also rich. Very rich, C.B.”
“So who pays?”
“She’ll pay me, and I’ll pay you. I’ll guarantee your end—forty an hour. But I won’t front the money.”
“In my experience,” Tate said, “rich folks don’t pay any better than poor folks. Worse, sometimes.”
“I told you, I’ll guarantee your end. Thirty days after the job ends. Max.”
“Yeah …” It was a dubious monosyllable.
“Well, what’d you say?”
A pause. Then: “You say I’ll get my money, that’s good enough. What’re we talking about? A week?”
“Maybe more like three days. I’m not sure. Why? You got something else?”
“Nothing I can’t move back a week. No more, though. I’ve got an insurance fraud case that looks good. Real good. Big bucks. I might be able to use you, come to think about it. How’s that sound?”
Silent Witness Page 11
