Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  As she opened the bathroom door she saw Alan sitting on the bed, telephone to his ear, listening. Fulsomely aware of his eyes following her, she took off the sheer nylon blouse, put on the cotton one. As she worked at the buttons, she sat in the room’s only armchair, propping her bare feet on the bed. Smiling, mischievously erotic, she began burrowing her toes beneath his thigh. Shifting the phone to his left hand, he began stroking her calf. Last night, this morning, and now—whenever they touched each other—the bells began to ring. Two months ago, weekending in Mendocino, their first time together in a motel, it had been the same: a feast of the senses. Motel madness, she’d called it.

  He put down the telephone, began caressing her thigh as he leaned forward to kiss her.

  Just as the telephone warbled.

  Sighing, he lifted the phone with his left hand, shrugged broadly, withdrew his right hand from her thigh, reached for a notepad and pen—while he ruefully smiled.

  “Hello?”

  She watched his face as he listened. The first time she’d seen him, he’d introduced himself to the dozen-odd hopefuls who were trying out for The Buried Child, the play he would be directing. “Lincolnesque” was the phrase that had immediately come to mind. Alan’s long, lean, gangling body, his deeply etched face with its hint of sadness, the somber dark eyes that saw so much and sometimes revealed so little—they were all part of his persona.

  “So where’re you now?” he was asking. Then, after a brief pause: “Do you think she made you, and was trying to lose you?” A short silence. “Well, let’s decide on San Rafael. No, call my machine in the city, don’t bother with this number.” A final pause. “Okay. Good luck.” He cradled the phone, shook his head, saying to her, “That was C.B. He lost Theo in Corte Madera.”

  “Hmmm …” She began to run one bare foot up his thigh.

  “Behave, will you?” Suddenly he tickled the sole of her foot. Laughing, convulsed, she drew back her legs, twisting away. “Don’t.”

  “Ticklish, eh?” He leered at her. “I’ll remember that, when all else fails.”

  “What ‘all else’ did you have in mind?” She matched his leer.

  “Right now, nothing. After all—” He glanced at his watch. “It’s barely been two hours.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “Besides, the meter’s running. Would you feel right about it, billing your childhood friend for time we spent making love at ten o’clock in the morning?”

  She laughed: almost a girlish giggle, pure, uncomplicated pleasure. “I guess that’d depend on whether you itemized the bill. Besides, you could always—”

  The telephone came alive. Resigned, she suddenly rose, spoke quickly: “I’m going to find Janice, see if she wants coffee.”

  He nodded, lifted the phone. “Hello?”

  “Alan, this is Frank.”

  “Frank—” He’d forgotten that, more than an hour ago, he’d called Frank Hastings to ask for a quick police check, up or down, on Theo Stark. Years ago, Bernhardt had worked with Ann Haywood, in little theater. Newly divorced from a venal society psychiatrist, keeping herself in circulation, Ann had volunteered to paint sets at the Howell. Later, she’d met Frank Hastings, who cocommanded the SFPD’s Homicide Squad, along with the irascible Peter Friedman. Frequently, Bernhardt and Hastings exchanged favors, usually information from the police computers in exchange for small, not-quite-legal jobs the police needed done.

  “No news,” Hastings said. “As far as California is concerned, the lady’s clean.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I know the building she lives in. Pretty fancy.”

  “Yeah …”

  “Listen,” Hastings said, “I’ve got to get off. How’s Paula?”

  “Fine. Ann?”

  “She’s great. We’re going to take her two kids river rafting next week. My daughter—Claudia—is coming out from Detroit. She’s going with us.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “If you and Paula are interested, you could probably come along. There’re several rafts, you know—eight-passenger rafts, I think. I can give you the name of the outfit that puts the trips together.”

  “I doubt that I can do it. Free-lancing, I’m discovering, doesn’t let you plan very far ahead. Not if you’re interested in cash flow.”

  “My father used to say that the only thing worse than working for yourself is working for someone else.”

  “Your father must’ve been a very wise man.” As he said it, he heard Hastings cover the mouthpiece of his phone, and talk behind his hand.

  Then: “Gotta go, Alan. See you soon. Come by for some of the city’s coffee.”

  “Right. And thanks again.” He cradled the telephone, rose, went to the window, adjusted the curtain so that he could look out across the parking lot to the pool. Three small children were playing in the wading pool. Two women, both in bathing suits, one slim, the other chunky, sat beside the pool, watching their children.

  While, a few miles to the south, John might also be at play in the water of Price’s swimming pool.

  But John would be playing alone, watched over by a paid employee—or an indifferent father.

  Was the tension building? Were the principals drawing together, entering the lists, ready for the final combat? Mixing the metaphor, was the third act about to begin? Yes, ready or not, the curtain could be going up. Janice was about to commit herself. Price, at bay, could be turning dangerous. Al Martelli, the pivot character, was onstage, ready. Theo Stark, the mystery woman, was somewhere in the wings. All of it centering on John.

  If he could write the play, could make fact follow fiction, how would he construct the plot? It would be rooted of course, in conflict, the essence of drama. A scene at the graveyard could be the opening, trite but serviceable. Janice and Dennis Price, the antagonists. John, the pint-size protagonist. Paula had been at the graveyard, too, a member of the chorus. The mourners—the shades, from Greek tragedy—defined the mood, silent messengers from beyond.

  Enter the hero: Alan Bernhardt, the avenger. More conflict, more revelation. Enter Theo Stark, the mysterious presence. Fowler, a surly Rosencrantz. Benson, lean and saturnine, a stoop-shouldered Guildenstern. Martelli, the wayfarer—and, finally, C. B. Tate, the ghetto Falstaff.

  Heighten the tension, draw the circle tighter—watch them begin to squirm, lash out at each other. While John, the innocent, held the key.

  Yes, it was a workable plot, with a serviceable roster of characters, a good mix.

  But how would it end?

  What were the possibilities, the combinations? Would the ending be revelatory: finally the truth, dashing the evildoers’ nefarious designs?

  Would the ending be upbeat: Dennis, the errant father, redeeming himself, embracing his son, with a fade-out to a swelling musical score?

  A surprise ending, perhaps—a twist: Enter Fowler, with the murderer in chains, a stranger, glowering as he confessed?

  Or another, more complicated twist: Martelli as Connie’s lover, perhaps, the good guy unmasked as the murderer?

  Or … ?

  3:40 P.M.

  BERNHARDT DREW THE CURTAIN, bolted the door, swung the canvas bag up on the luggage rack. Seated on the bed, Paula watched him as he stripped off his shirt and bent over the bag. Soon, she knew, Alan and Janice would leave for the winery. The contents of the bag, then, were essential to their mission, to their safety. Guns or communication equipment. Or both.

  Conscious of a dull, nameless dread that translated into a constriction of the throat and chest, she watched him unzip the bag. The second time they’d made love, in the afterglow, lying side by side in her bed, pillow-talking, he’d told her how the black hit man had died. It had happened in the desert below Palm Springs. When he’d told her about it—how the black man had died, and why—it had been a confession, something he’d had to tell her.

  He was remembering that night now, the night he’d told her what happened. She could see it in his face, read it in his eye
s as, yes, he withdrew the revolver from the canvas bag. The revolver was holstered; only the walnut butt showed. Turning his attention to the pistol, he drew it from the holster and swung out the cylinder. She saw them clearly: the five brass cartridges, and the one empty chamber. Now he returned the cylinder to its locked position, careful to put the empty cylinder under the hammer. He returned the pistol to its leather holster, and slipped it down against the small of his back, above the butt. A large leather fob held the holster in position, an ingenious design.

  Often, making love, she’d caressed him in the hollow of the spine above the buttocks, where the pistol now rested.

  As he slipped on his shirt and began buttoning it, she saw him watching her. His face—the dark, Semitic face, the face that so often expressed so much—was now without expression. Watching her. Waiting.

  “I—I hope you won’t need that,” she ventured.

  “I won’t need it. But it’s nice to feel it there.” Now, gravely, he was smiling. He turned back to the bag, took out a small cardboard box. He put the box on the corner of the bureau, and rezipped the bag. The box, she knew, contained cartridges for the revolver.

  “It’s time to go.” He spoke quietly, seriously.

  She rose, went to him, put her arms around his waist, careful not to touch the gun. “Be careful. Come back safe.”

  “I’m not going to war, you know. I’m just going to stand lookout for Janice.”

  “With a gun.”

  “Price can get pretty excited. People seem to calm down, I’ve noticed, when they see a gun.” He slipped his arms around her waist, drew her close, felt her body’s intimacy, his special privilege, arousing him. But now, smiling, he resolutely stepped back. “Got to go. We should be back in two, three hours. If C.B. shows up, tell him to try me on the car phone. If he doesn’t get me—” He hesitated, deciding. Then: “Tell him to come here, to Saint Stephen, to the motel.” As he spoke, he dropped his eyes to the canvas bag. Then he lifted the bag, shoved it under the bed, saying, “There’s a sawed-off shotgun in that bag. It’s very effective, but illegal as hell. If C.B. asks, tell him where it is, okay?” As he spoke, he took the box of cartridges from the corner of the bureau.

  She swallowed. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Okay—here I go.” He stepped close, touched her cheek, smiled into her eyes. “Love you lots.”

  “Me too you.”

  It was a whimsical exchange that had evolved between them, one of their special secrets.

  4:15 P.M.

  AS FOWLER CLOSED HIS office door and locked it, he heard the radio come to life: Andy Strauss, bored, was reporting from the field: “Base, this is Unit One.”

  Equally bored, Grace Perkins slid the microphone across the desk, keyed the microphone, pressed the “record” switch.

  “Unit One, base. Go ahead.”

  “I’m on Route Sixteen at Baldwin’s Lane, where someone on the Crawford place reported there was a dead deer in the road.”

  “Roger.” As she said it, Grace swiveled in her chair to face Fowler, who stood before her desk. Reading Fowler’s expression, she decided that the last call from Benson had cut it: beneath the glowing pink fat of his cherub’s cheeks and jowls, Fowler was pissed. This time, really pissed. God, how she loved it, seeing Fowler pissed, and trying so hard not to show it.

  “Well,” Strauss was saying, “there’s no deer here, dead or otherwise. And no blood, either.”

  “Roger.” With a forefinger she lightly traced the line of her left eyebrow. On her next break, she would redo both eyebrows, and touch up the eyeshadow, too.

  “Shall I ask around, see if someone carted it off and cut it up? Those Fisher twins, for instance?”

  Grace looked at Fowler, who shrugged, then indifferently nodded, what the hell.

  “Give it an hour, maybe.” Inquiringly, she looked at Fowler, who nodded again. “Yeah, Andy, an hour.”

  “Roger. Then I’ll come in.”

  “Roger.” She switched off the microphone, switched off the tape recorder, looked expectantly at Fowler.

  “I’m going over to the city hall,” Fowler said. “Then I’m going out to Brookside. I’m going to talk to Price. Then I’ll go on home.”

  Pleasantly surprised, her little secret, she nodded. She might not have to wait for her break, then, to work on her eyes.

  4:20 P.M.

  “GODDAMMIT.” BERNHARDT BRACED HIS legs wide, took a fresh grip on the bolt cutters, and strained. Nothing. The jaws of the bolt cutters had hardly marked the chain. Like the padlock’s shank, the chain was hardened steel. The bolt cutters weren’t powerful enough to do the job. He straightened, took a deep breath, looked at his watch. In minutes they were due at the barn. If he’d spent an extra fifty dollars, gotten a better pair of cutters …

  Furiously shaking his head, Bernhardt moved to his right, began angrily snipping at the wire of the fence. Standing beside him, Janice said nothing.

  “Can’t be helped,” he muttered. “Goddammit.”

  “I know …”

  “I’m going to cut a flap, just big enough to squeeze through.” As he spoke, he cut the final wire.

  “Yes …”

  “Here—” Bernhardt thrust the bolt cutters into a manzanita bush, concealed, then gripped the wire fencing with both hands and bent it back. “Get down. Way down.”

  As she crouched, then lowered herself until she was crawling on hands and knees, Janice chuckled. How many years had it been since she’d crawled in the dirt, conscious of the soil’s warmth, aware of the earth’s rich, loamy smell?

  “Okay,” Bernhardt said. “You’re through.”

  She straightened, brushed off her hands and knees. Turning, she saw Bernhardt struggling with the wire. “Wait—” She stepped close to the fence, took hold of the wire. “Wait, you’re caught.” Carefully, she worked at his shirt. As the shirt came free, she saw the bare flesh of his back—and the revolver, tucked inside his jeans at the small of his back. Had this quiet, thoughtful man ever used his gun—ever shot anyone? Killed anyone? Would Paula know?

  “All right—there.” She watched him straighten, and look quickly around. They stood in a lightly forested grove of oak and fir trees bisected by a dirt road that led to the gate. Just ahead, through the trees, she saw the vineyard: row upon row of grapevines, following the rolling contours of the land. Beyond the low ridge of the vineyard to the left, she saw the cluster of winery buildings, only the roofs visible, metal and shingle. To the right she saw the roof of the main house, with its massive stone chimneys.

  “The barn’s this way.” Bernhardt gestured to the left. “Let’s stay close to the fence, in the trees.” He spoke softly, cautiously. His eyes were in constant motion, traversing the terrain.

  As she followed him over the hot, dry earth, she thought of the Hale family ranch in the San Ysidro Valley, behind Santa Barbara. The flora of San Ysidro was similar to Benedict County: scattered trees dotting the dry brown grass of the low, rolling hills. She could still hear her father’s voice warning his two small daughters: “You must be careful of rattlesnakes in hot, dry country like this. You must always watch where you step.”

  Ahead, Bernhardt had stopped, and was standing in a half-crouch. Beyond him, through the trees, she saw the shape of a large barn, standing decrepit in the blaze of afternoon.

  4:25 P.M.

  “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT—” Martelli reached for the fishing rod. “Why don’t I take your stuff back to my house, and you can pick them up after you’ve talked to your Aunt Janice?”

  “But we’ve only been fishing for a little while. And I almost had one,” John protested. “I think they’re biting.”

  “Yeah, well—” Firmly, Martelli took the rod, then began tying both rods to his mountain bike, and hanging the bait bag from his handlebars. “Well, we got a late start, because of that busted conveyor belt. We’ll make it up, I promise. But for now—” He pointed to the path that led to the barn, just visible through the tr
ees. “For now, you shouldn’t keep your aunt waiting.”

  “But—” Lifting his own bike, just like Al’s, only smaller, John looked toward the barn. How could he say it? How could he tell Al how he felt, when he’d learned that his Aunt Janice was here, and wanted to see him?

  “She wants to talk to you,” Al had said. “It’s very important.”

  Very important …

  At the funeral, he’d stood between his father and Aunt Janice. His Aunt Janice had held his hand. The touch of her hand and the shape of the coffin, one of them real, flesh on flesh, one of them a mystery from far beyond, together they had caused the whole world to shift around him. It was a lost, sudden ache, an emptiness that would never end.

  And now, in this golden afternoon, with the sunlight slanting through these tall trees as he stood leaning against the bike, the world was about to shift again. He’d seen it in Al’s eyes, heard it in Al’s voice. Coming secretly, not to the house but here, to the barn, his aunt was connecting them.

  He, his aunt, the image of his mother in his thoughts, they were all drawing together—all connecting, centering on him, on the memory of that night, and the terror at the top of the stairs.

  4:35 P.M.

  STANDING WITH MARTELLI BESIDE the dusty road that led past the barn and down to the winery, Bernhardt watched John push his mountain bike behind a screen of manzanita that grew close beside the barn. Janice stood in front of the big barn door that sagged decrepitly on its rusted hinges. Now the boy turned to the woman and gestured. Together, they tugged at the door, dragging it open enough to let them slip through. As Bernhardt watched, they pulled the door closed behind them.

  “He likes her,” Martelli said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t invite her inside. He’s got some, you know, secret stuff in there. His fort, like that.”

  “Has he ever invited you inside?”

  Martelli smiled. “Not really.”

  Remembering the forts of his childhood, most of them constructed of blankets and ropes stretched in the far corner of his mother’s loft, Bernhardt returned the smile. Then: “Does John have many playmates?”