Bernhardt's Edge (34 page)

How fleeting it had been, the unimagined luxury of simply telling the truth.

“Is that true, Mr. Car—Mr. Powers?”

He was nodding. Cautiously, watchfully nodding. In business, in the boardroom, he'd learned to watch their eyes, read their eyes. And in Deputy Foster's boyish, China blue eyes, he saw the kind of smugness that could clearly mean trouble.

But he couldn't retract the nod. The single quick, ill-considered, self-incriminating bob of the head was forever gone, eternally beyond recall.

“A black man, Jerry said. About thirty, driving a black Camaro. Is that the man?”

“I—I don't know what kind of a car he's driving.”

Another silence lengthened as Deputy Foster's innocent blue eyes remained fixed on him. Then, softly: “His name was Fisher. Is that right, sir? William Fisher?”

Was?

Was
?

“Y—yes—” He felt a surge of sudden relief. Because he could be spared. He could be—

“Is that right—the right name?”

“Y—yes. That's—” Once more, his throat closed. But words were without meaning now. Everything, he knew, was revealed in their faces—his face, and Deputy Foster's face. “That's him. William Fisher. Yes.”

As soon as he said it, he saw the other man's demeanor change. As if he were no longer capable of concealing his pleasure, Deputy Foster let a long, self-satisfied beat pass while he restored himself, regained his previous petty, officious poise. Then, incongruously, he looked down at Powers' bare feet. When he finally spoke, his manner was elaborately formal—chillingly formal: “If you wouldn't mind, sir, I wish you'd get some shoes on, comb your hair, whatever, and then come with me. There's—ah—something you can help me with.”

An accident
, Foster had said earlier. Then he'd used the past tense, referring to Fisher. Perhaps, after all, there was hope. Perhaps, now, a bit of role-playing was called for, to remind this fresh-faced bumpkin deputy of his real status, of their relative importance.

“I think,” Powers said, “that you'd better tell me what this is all about, Deputy Foster.”

Instantly, the China blue eyes narrowed, the parade-ground stance stiffened.

Could it have been a mistake, challenging this underling? If Foster felt forced to call in his superiors, the strategy could backfire—badly. So, softening his manner, trying for a more colloquial tone, Powers asked quietly, “What's happened, anyhow?”

“There was an accident, sir,” came the prompt response. “A bad accident. And William Fisher is dead.”

“How—” He cleared his throat, licked his lips. “How'd it happen?”

“There was a—” Cautiously, Foster paused. Then: “There was a fire, sir.”

A fire…

“Well, if he's dead, then I don't understand what you need from me. I mean—” He spread his hands. “I mean, what's the urgency? What's the point of my—” Unsure how to finish it, he frowned, spread his hands, tried not to reveal the numbness of relief that struck him squarely in his center, as sudden as a blow.

“Identification, I guess,” Foster replied. And now, plainly feigning an indifference he didn't feel, he spread his big-knuckled hands and smiled. “I don't know, to be completely honest with you. All I know is, the sheriff sent me here, to ask you to come on over, help us out.”

“Well, then—” With a false smile in place, Powers decided to elaborately, amiably shrug as he stepped to the bureau, pocketed his wallet, his keys, his change, his knife. “Well, then, I guess I'd better comply.” Quickly, he slipped on the boat shoes he'd decided to wear, ran a comb through his hair, and gestured for the deputy to precede him through the door, out into the desert night, cooler now, a welcome balm. The sheriff's car was parked in the driveway, blocking the Mercedes.

“Why don't you go ahead,” he said, speaking casually. “I'll follow you.”

“No, sir—” Diffidently, Foster swung open the patrol car's passenger door. “No, sir. I think it'd be better if you came with me.” Boyishly cheerful now, he smiled. Genially explaining: “Bosses' orders.”

B
ERNHARDT GLANCED THROUGH THE
archway and into Pamela's tiny kitchen, where a clock hung on the wall over the Cuisinart. He'd been talking for almost an hour, telling her everything, every detail. He'd once seen Ruth Gordon interviewed on PBS, a celebration of her eightieth birthday. She'd been asked for her thoughts on marriage. In her gravelly voice, she'd said that the real meaning of marriage was that you “had someone to tell it to.” Driving from his apartment to Pam's, he'd remembered the line. Because, during the drive up from Los Angeles, the closer he got to San Francisco, the more clearly he realized that, yes, he wanted to tell it to Pamela, the whole story. And when he'd called her, heard the instant lilt of pleasurable recognition in her voice, when she'd invited him to dinner that same night, pasta and salad, he could bring the wine, he'd experienced a quick, breathless excitement that had left him, literally, laughing out loud, a teenager again.

“My God—” Sitting across the table, eyes wide, she incredulously shook her head. “It's amazing, an amazing story. It's like a—a movie, a damn good movie. Where's Powers now? In jail?”

“I doubt it. But I doubt that he's sleeping very well.”

“Did you and the woman—Betty Giles—confront him at the scene, with the”—mischievously, she smiled—“with the barbecued corpse, and everything, right there?”

He nodded. “That's right. At least, she told the sheriff what she suspected, that Powers hired Fisher, or whatever his name is. And the fact that several people, including the motel manager, will testify that Powers said he was looking for a black man who worked for him, that pretty much ties up the package.”

“And what about Daniel DuBois? Did she implicate him?”

Bernhardt shook his head, at the same time refilling her glass, then refilling his own. “No, she didn't. Maybe she will, down the line. But she didn't do it then, not in the first hour or two.”

“She wrote out the statement, though, and gave her mother a key to the safe deposit box.”

He nodded. “Yesterday.” For a moment they sat silently, their eyes meeting, sharing the moment. Bernhardt shook his head. “It's amazing, when you think about it. A second, two seconds, and your whole life changes. Forever.” As he spoke, their eyes still held. If he'd been writing the scene in a play—or, more like it, in a B movie—the protagonist might continue to hold her eyes as he said,
“The way my whole life changed when I met you.”

Did she feel it, feel this sudden, special closeness? If she were writing the scene, what lines would she give herself?

Finally, softly, she said, “And Powers arriving on the scene like that, it's amazing. I wonder why he did it, put himself in jeopardy like that?”

“I don't know. Once he saw the body, he just quit talking. All he'd say was that he wanted to call his lawyer.”

“Did he spend the night in jail?”

Bernhardt nodded. “Yes. And maybe the next night, too. They took him to San Diego.”

Another companionable silence settled between them as they sipped their wine and looked into each other's eyes. As the moment lengthened, he saw her expression change. As if she'd experienced sudden pain, her eyes darkened, her mouth tightened. “It must've been horrible for you. I mean, seeing him burning, running until he dropped, it must've made you—” Helplessly, she broke off.

“It made me sick to my stomach,” he answered quietly. “Very, very sick to my stomach. But then, later, it was okay. I mean, if I'd actually shot him, killed him, I probably would've felt worse, a lot worse. Because they say there's a moment, one split second, before you pull the trigger to kill someone at close range, that you hesitate. Because you know—you realize, suddenly—what it means, killing someone, killing that particular person. But this was different, you see. Because all I saw was something inside the window frame—a half-gallon bottle with the wick burning, a Molotov cocktail. He was going to burn us out, then kill us, with his machine pistol, that's pretty obvious, now. But I didn't know any of that, obviously, when I shot. It was a reflex. The simplest, most elemental reflex. I saw something move, and I fired. And that was it. I hit the bottle and it broke, and the next second, the next split second, he was a human torch.”

“You must be a good shot.”

“Not really. I had a shotgun—a sawed-off shotgun. From six or seven feet, it has pattern of about a foot, maybe more. So I could hardly have missed. But, still—” He dropped his eyes, drained his glass of wine. “Still, I'll have nightmares for a while. And Betty will, too.” As he spoke, he was remembering the sheriff—Alvin Gates, a fat, fortyish, slow-talking man with small, shrewd eyes. While Bernhardt had told his story, Gates had stared thoughtfully at the sawed-off, lying on the bed. Neither man had mentioned the gun, an unspoken bargain between them, noblesse oblige. And now the sawed-off was impounded, in Gates' charge. With luck, Bernhardt would never see it again.

Another short silence passed before, decisively, she rose to her feet, picked up their empty plates. “Time for dessert,” she announced, taking the plates into the kitchen, where she put them in the sink, and turned on the tap. Bernhardt picked up two serving dishes, and followed her. As he put the serving dishes on the counter beside the sink, she remained motionless, staring down into the sink. He stood silently for a moment, looking at her profile, half turned away. Then, hardly aware that he'd intended to do it, he lifted his hand to touch the curve of her neck, just below the ear. He felt her start at the touch, then felt her raise her shoulder, incline her head toward his touch, move almost imperceptibly closer. Now, still turned away, she put her hand on the tap, shut off the frothing stream of steaming water. For a moment they remained motionless, deciding. Then he moved his hands to her shoulders, gently turned her to face him. Neither moving closer nor moving away from him, she gravely raised her eyes to his.

“I'm sorry for your nightmares,” she said. “Truly sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm also sorry for that crack about the barbecued corpse. Sometimes I—I say those things. I see pictures in my mind, and the words come out.”

“I know. It's okay.” He spoke softly, intimately. Then, still with his hands on her shoulders, he drew her slowly toward him until, yes, her breasts were touching his chest. At the touch, he felt her body quicken—as his body, too, was quickening, tightening.

“I thought about you when I was gone,” he said. “I thought about you a lot.”

“I know you did. I thought about you, too, Alan. A lot.”

“I'd like us to—” He broke off as she lowered her head to rest her forehead on his chest. “I'd like us to be lovers,” he whispered.

“I know…”

He moved his hands down from her shoulders to the small of her back, still drawing her closer. He felt her reluctance to make this final commitment of the body, yet also sensed her reluctance to move away from him. With his lips against her forehead, he whispered, “You need time. I understand that.”

“Yes…” Against his chest, he felt her nodding. “A little time. Just a little.”

“It's okay, Pam. Believe me, it's okay. I can wait.”

He felt her stir, felt a quickening—this time a whimsical quickening. With her face buried now in the hollow of his shoulder, still with her body close to his—close enough, for now—he heard her chuckle.

“How long can you wait?” she asked.

“Almost as long as you can,” he answered quickly, “but no longer.”

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T
HE SOUNDS WERE ANIMAL
: wild sounds in the savage darkness, sounds of ragged, tortured panting. Fingers had crooked into claws, flesh tearing at flesh, fists flailing. She saw the clenched flash of teeth, lips drawn back, human no longer. And their eyes: predators' eyes, killers' eyes. Human killers, more dangerous than animal. She heard a scream: her voice, her scream. But the sound was lost, only a whimper, stifled in her throat. Strangler's fingers, his flesh on hers: murderer's flesh, no longer a lover's. She must break free. Legs thrashing, arms lashing, she must—

The first crash, metal on bone, ignited the kaleidoscope, an incandescent shower cascading through the darkness behind her eyes. She'd seen these lights cascading through this same darkness only once, when she'd fallen from her horse. She'd—

With the second crash, perspectives were changed. She felt sensation leaving, felt herself falling away—slowly at first, then faster, a sickening spiral, accelerating.