11:38. Automatically, he started getting undressed, laying his clothes down neatly on a chair. Then, just as automatically, he got into his pajamas and waited for Samantha to come in.
She came in a minute later, startled to see Marty ready for bed. Was this, too, part of the ritual? "You must really be tired," she said. "I'd guessed that you'd have so much adrenaline you'd be up most of the night."
"I've got the adrenaline," Marty answered. "I may not be able to sleep."
"You want some warm milk? That'll do it."
"No, it's no way to end a party."
Suddenly, Samantha saw Marty walk over to the bed and bend down. It was then that she noticed that the attaché case was under the bed. Her heart began to pound as she saw Marty going for it. Slowly, he slid it out, then started unzippering the top flap.
He reached inside.
Samantha was ready to say the words that would bring Cross-Wade crashing into the apartment. She looked around. If this were the moment, she'd grab the brass lamp on top of the bureau and hold it out to protect herself, or reach for the Mace.
Marty felt around inside the case. Samantha heard the rustling of papers and clips.
Then, his hand started coming out slowly.
Samantha saw a flash of black.
Marty took out his comb.
"I can't find the comb I keep in the bathroom," he explained. "I've looked everywhere."
Samantha let out a deep, agonized breath of relief… temporary relief, but still relief.
"What's wrong?" Marty asked.
"Oh, nothing, I'm just feeling the effects of all the excitement."
"Sam, sit down. Please. You're in a delicate condition."
And Samantha did walk over to the bed and sit. It was 11:44. In sixteen minutes, she knew, it would all be over. What was he waiting for?
He slid the case back under the bed.
"I haven't seen the other comb," Samantha volunteered. "You might have slipped it into a jacket pocket by mistake."
"Yeah, that's probably right," Marty answered, as he stood before a mirror and combed back a few stray hairs. Then he turned around. "My birthday will be over soon," he said, almost like a little boy who'd never grown up.
"I know," Samantha answered.
"I really don't want it to end. It's so important to me."
Here it comes, Samantha thought. Instinctively, she got up from the bed and walked nonchalantly over to the table lamp.
"Why are you walking over there?" Marty asked. There was a nervous edge to his voice.
"Just walking," Samantha answered. He was going over the line. She felt it.
"Why don't you come and sit next to me?"
What do you say? Think fast. "Marty, my leg fell asleep. I just want to shake it off."
"Your leg never fell asleep before."
"Maybe it's the baby. This condition does strange things."
"All right."
He seemed pacified, but there was a strangely hostile look coming over him. Now the fear welled up inside Samantha once more. The next time he reached into that case, she knew, it wouldn't be for a comb. She glanced up at the air vent, where the microphone was. Cross-Wade was listening. He had to know that Marty's tone was beginning to change.
11:46.
"Your leg feel better?" Marty asked.
"A little."
"That's good. That's very good."
"All right," Cross-Wade said to his crew, "let's get ready to charge." One of his men walked to the door of their apartment and opened it slightly. Cross-Wade and Loggins felt for their shoulder holsters and loosened their pistols, which they prayed they wouldn't have to use.
"Jesus," Cross-Wade muttered. "She hasn't opened the lock. I told her to do that. Their apartment is still locked." He had the key, but knew that precious seconds could be lost unless he could burst in. He was worried, even panicked. He'd made a solemn pledge to protect Samantha, and something had already gone wrong. Now he had to decide: Wait until Marty strikes, or get in now and prevent a crime, but miss the incriminating caught-in-the-act evidence he needed. For a few more moments, he listened to the speaker.
"I feel much better now," Samantha said, still trying to act, still wondering how close to the end Marty wanted to stretch this.
I want you to take care of yourself," Marty replied. "You're carrying some valuable cargo."
"That I know."
"Come sit down."
What could she say now?
11:47.
She walked slowly toward the bed. And then, as if her thoughts were linked with Cross-Wade's, she remembered. "Wait a second. I didn't lock the door."
"I locked it," Marty said.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. After Tom left."
"I'd better check."
"Sam, I told you, I locked it."
"Marty, you were all excited. Did you hear what happened today?"
"No."
"I didn't want to tell you, not right before the party. You know, Mrs. Klein, on the next floor?"
"Sure."
"Someone got into her apartment. Robbery. They beat her up." Samantha sighed as any good actress would. "She'd left the lock open."
"So I'll check," Marty said.
"Marty, don't treat me like an invalid!"
It was the perfect line, and Marty was startled, startled enough so Samantha could begin walking out of the room before he could respond. She looked back with a warm smile, to soothe him. "I'm only pregnant," she said softly.
He did nothing. Samantha walked to the front door, jiggled the lock as Cross-Wade had instructed her to, and left it open.
To Cross-Wade, listening intently, she'd just become something of a saint.
11:48.
Samantha walked back into the bedroom and sat down next to Marty. It was a risk, but she felt a sense of control. With the door unlocked, Cross-Wade was only seconds away. Marty seemed lost in thought, as in fact he was. The decision had still not been made.
"Penny for your thoughts," Samantha said.
"I'm thinking of names," Marty replied, lying.
"It's a little soon," Samantha said.
"But it's so much fun."
"Yeah. Well, if it's a boy, it's Martin Everett, Junior," Samantha said. "That I insist on."
"I'd like that," Marty replied. "At least I could start a family tradition."
"And if it's a girl?" Samantha asked.
"I don't know."
"No ideas?"
"Not really. Not yet."
"What about your mother's name?" Samantha suggested. Marty seemed to tighten. "No," he said. "Not my mother's name. I never liked her name."
It was another sign, Samantha thought. Marty's fixation with his real mother had slipped out. It was coming. He was over the line. It was a matter of minutes, or seconds.
Cross-Wade thought the same thing. At 11:49 he, Loggins, and a third man eased out into the hallway, moved down to Samantha's door and stood outside, ready to barge in. They now listened to the conversation on small earphone receivers.
"How about my mother's name?" Samantha asked.
Marty shrugged. A sudden moodiness came over him. "Why does it have to be any mother's name?"
"It doesn't have to be."
"How about Ruth Lenore?"
"That's very nice," Samantha said. "Did you just think of it?"
"My father liked that name. He once told me that if I had a sister, that would be her name. Ruth Lenore. I like that."
"So do I. If it's a girl, Marty, that'll be her name."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Dad would have been happy."
It was the truth. Dad would have been happy. He had wanted a little girl, and always spoke of naming her Ruth Lenore.
For Samantha, it was still one more sign. Now Marty was the little boy who'd adored his father.
11:51.
"It's unfair," Marty went on. "Dad should have had his little girl."
"It
's too bad he died so young," Samantha lamented.
"He would have been very good to that little girl," Marty said. He seemed to stare into space, to slip into a different world. Although he was sure Samantha didn't know it, he was talking about his real father, Frankie Nelson's father, not the father he had invented in the fables he'd told Samantha and everyone else. "I'll bet she would've been the best-behaved little girl in town," he continued. "Dad would've made sure of that."
Samantha became increasingly frightened by the stare on Marty's face, by his morbid monologue. She felt for the Mace to be certain it was still there. Then she eased herself up and walked once again to the table lamp. This time he hardly noticed. It was 11:52.
In the hallway, Cross-Wade was sure the moment had virtually arrived. "Get ready," he whispered to Loggins and the other detective.
"He would've brought her dresses and ribbons," Marty intoned. "Great Dad. He was always so good to me."
"I'm sure," Samantha replied. She knew enough from Cross-Wade's theories about Marty's condition to ploy along skillfully.
"Did I ever tell you about the time he carried me piggy back through a kiddy park?"
"No."
"He did. And he had a bad back too. But he wanted to give me a good time. Mom wasn't along. She never went to kiddy parks. Dad liked all those things. Like electric trains. He liked electric trains. It was tough to afford them. Y'know, times weren't great."
"You told me."
11:53.
"He got me the trains, though. Just like the ones I got. The very best. Dad always liked the best things for me. He wanted me to grow up and go to college. I'm sorry he couldn't see me graduate."
He stopped. He looked at his watch. Then, he looked at it again, as if studying the time. "Come here," he said.
Samantha didn't move.
"Come on over here."
Cross-Wade heard, and placed his hand on the doorknob, turning it slightly.
Still, Samantha didn't move.
"You afraid of me?" Marty asked. Without waiting for an answer, he got up slowly and started walking toward Samantha.
She glanced back at the table lamp.
Marty approached her. He placed his arms around her.
11:54.
He held her for a full minute, not saying a word.
11:55.
"Dad would want to see our baby," he finally said. "No doubt about it." He turned around and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door. Samantha heard the water running for a short time. Then Marty came out. He walked over to the bed. Samantha could see that he was looking downward, toward his attaché case. She was ready to utter the words that would bring Cross-Wade.
11:58.
Marty smiled at Samantha, and blew her a kiss. "Thanks for a wonderful evening," he said, "and a wonderful baby."
11:59.
Without a word, he got into bed. He closed his eyes.
Samantha couldn't believe what she was seeing.
December fifth passed into history.
Martin Everett Shaw had decided.
19
Samantha kept staring at Marty.
Then she looked at the clock on the bureau. It was 12:01 A.M. It was over. It was over.
She felt every muscle in her body fall into repose. She felt as if half the weight had evaporated from her bones. And she felt complete again. The vague hopes that had sustained her during the horror she had lived through had been answered. Marty was no murderer. She still didn't know who he was, but he wasn't the grown-up version of that pathetic little boy from Omaha. Spencer Cross-Wade, sent the wrong medical records, had apparently been misled somewhere else as well. Yes, there was all that evidence—the similarity between the room in Omaha and this bedroom—but evidence is often misleading, Samantha knew. Cross-Wade had told her so. In the chaos of this moment she couldn't explain all the contradictions, all the signs pointing to Marty. She only knew that he lay there, harmless, on the morning of December sixth, an innocent man looking forward to becoming a father.
Cross-Wade still stood outside the front door with Loggins and another detective. Now Sergeant Yang, who'd been waiting in "their" apartment, joined him. For the police, there was only bafflement. Cross-Wade felt for Samantha, cheered for her, but he recognized that the calendar schizophrenic may have eluded him.
"I don't understand," he whispered to his detectives, all of them feeling foolish standing outside the door of the innocent man. "Everything pointed to him."
"Everything was wrong," Yang lamented.
"Maybe," Cross-Wade replied. "Maybe not. He may just have decided to stop killing, or to skip a year, or whatever."
"Or maybe it isn't him," Loggins said.
"Or maybe it isn't him," Cross-Wade agreed. "In that case, somewhere, a young woman has died tonight. And I am responsible."
"Not true," Yang said.
"It is," Cross-Wade insisted. "Accountability, Sergeant. Accountability. And tomorrow, we must start all over again. Back at square one."
Cross-Wade was interrupted by the clicking of the doorknob. The officers watched as the knob turned, slowly, hesitantly. It reached the limit of its turning radius, then the door opened.
Samantha stood there. She was not surprised to see that the officers had huddled right outside her door. She was surprised to see Yang.
"I didn't know…" she began to say, looking at Yang.
"I wanted to be here," Yang replied.
Then Samantha shifted her eyes to Cross-Wade.
"I have no answers," Cross-Wade told her, whispering so as not to awaken Marty.
"Neither do I," Samantha whispered back. Then she went to throw her arms around Cross-Wade, an embrace that reflected the ordeal they'd just been through. She just stayed there, her head on his shoulder, as he placed his arms about her.
"I feel I've served you poorly," Cross-Wade said. "You have my profound apologies."
The other officers stepped away, not wanting to interfere with this private moment.
"I know you did your best," Samantha replied. "Who knows what's in Marty's mind."
"How do you feel?" Cross-Wade asked.
"I don't know," Samantha told him. "I'm relieved, enormously relieved. Obviously. But I still don't know who my husband is. And we're going to have a baby."
"I have a feeling all the answers will come out," Cross-Wade said. "I hope they make you happy."
"Thank you."
"We'll be leaving now. We are, as I've always told you, at your service. I have this case to solve…still. I'll be working on that."
"Good luck," Samantha said. She removed the Mace from inside her gown and handed it back to Cross-Wade without comment.
"And good luck to you, madam. I'll be watching for your birth announcement."
"You don't have to watch," Samantha answered. "You'll be the first one I'll call."
"I'm gratified, Mrs. Shaw."
Samantha said her farewells to Loggins, Sergeant Yang, and the fourth man, whom she'd never met. She felt a tug toward them, an emotional connection that the victim always feels toward those involved in her case. She lingered in the hallway a few moments, then slipped back inside.
Samantha gazed around the darkened apartment, wishing she'd known at the start of the party what she knew now. She would have had a much better time. She would have felt the original fullness of her bond with Marty, the sense of completeness in being with him. Even with his mysterious past, the knowledge that he was not about to try to kill her would have been the greatest relief.
Now she walked back into the darkened bedroom. Lights from the hallway let her look once more at Marty's face, so content, so pleased, so relaxed. His breathing was regular, his body still. Was he dreaming? Probably, Samantha thought. Marty had always been a heavy dreamer. And if he was dreaming, it was probably about the baby, about walks through Central Park, about the swings and sandboxes in the Adventure Playground, about the first day in school and the meetings with teachers. Marty would relish all of
that. It would give him that feeling of family that he'd always missed. Samantha easily drifted back to the belief that Marty's past was noble, if secret, and that it would all be made clear in some grand moment with his child on his knee.
She got undressed and put on a light blue nightgown, Marty's favorite. She was ready to get into bed, but then thought of something, a gesture, that she thought Marty would like. Samantha went over to his desk, sat down, and took out a blank piece of note paper. On it she wrote, "Both of us love you." Then she took the note and placed it on Marty's night table. He was sure to see it when he woke up.
Samantha got into bed. Instantly, she felt Marty's warmth beside her. She knew she'd have trouble falling asleep, her mind still filled with the rushing events of the evening, but that warmth comforted her, gave her security.
"Good night," she whispered to him, obviously expecting no reply, but feeling the need to say it nonetheless.
She could hear the city quieting down outside, the traffic thinning, the strollers retiring. She thought about Spencer, Cross-Wade and Sergeant Yang, no doubt disappointed that they didn't get their man, and she thought about the mystery of the calendar killer still at large. But, inevitably, her mind returned to Marty's exoneration, and to all it meant for the future.
It was 12:16 A.M.
Samantha rolled over and rested.
20
At 12:35 A.M., Martin Shaw opened his eyes.
He hadn't been asleep. He'd been fully awake.
Waiting.
Waiting for the precise moment.
Martin Shaw had decided. And now he would carry out his decision.
Slowly, deliberately, he got out of bed. He started walking out of the room.
Samantha, unable to sleep, heard him and opened one eye. She watched Marty, assuming he was going to the kitchen for one of his midnight snacks. She decided not to join him. Give the man a chance to be alone with his thoughts and joys. She heard him walk down the hall, then was sure she heard him enter the living room.
Marty walked to the closet where the electric trains were stored. He started taking them out. Quickly, he set up a simple layout in the living room, only an oval of track about five feet long. He placed the trains on the track and turned on the power.
Samantha heard the trains. What was the matter with the guy? Or was anything the matter with him? Maybe he, too, couldn't sleep and decided to play with his trains, just as other men would take out a book, a stamp collection, or watch television. It was strange, but not entirely alarming. In fact, she concluded that this was a good sign: Marty was enjoying himself. Maybe the trains reminded him of the baby. Trains and children got along very, very well.
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