“Thank you,” said Dinah Ferris.
“And this is Alvin DuPree,” Lee Ann said.
Dinah Ferris turned to him. She had small dark eyes, somehow hard and sad at the same time.
Pirate thought of sticking out his hand; but maybe not. “Big-time,” he said. “I owe him big-time.”
Dinah Ferris nodded. “We have refreshments.”
“You’re very kind,” Lee Ann said. “I have one quick question.”
Dinah watched her, showed no reaction.
“Did your son ever discuss the tape with you?”
“No.”
“Do you know if he followed up in any way after he sent that tape in?”
140
PETER ABRAHAMS
Dinah shook her head.
“You don’t know or he didn’t follow up?”
“We never discussed nothin’ about the tape,” Dinah said. “No sense talkin’ ’bout it now—Napoleon was in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all.”
“Do you mean back then or—”
Dinah frowned; lines appeared all over her smooth face. “The wrong place at the wrong time. The sheriff told me himself.”
“Solomon Lanier?”
“That’s right. The sheriff.”
Pirate caught the pride in her tone when she said that. He was ready to grab some of the refreshments and go. But not Lee Ann.
“The sheriff has a good reputation,” she said.
Dinah nodded.
“So I was just wondering whether he asked why Nappy—why Napoleon—had been laying low the past while.”
“Laying low?” said Dinah.
“They were looking for him—Houston, Atlanta, everywhere. To verify the tape.”
“There was a hurricane,” Dinah said, her voice soft.
“Right—the refugees,” Lee Ann said. “But what about after—
when the tape turned up?”
“Don’t know about the tape,” Dinah said. “And no laying low, neither. Napoleon was livin’ right here, on the campground, ever since the storm come. Campground belongs to my cousin.”
“So why did he leave, go up to Stonewall County?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” said Dinah.
Lee Ann nodded. Her eyes shifted, like she had some thought, but all she said was, “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
“Refreshments,” Dinah said. She waved them toward the grill.
Pirate backed away. Smoke curled across the campground, bringing smells of chicken and shrimp. He was ready to eat.
Lee Ann handed Dinah her card. “If you ever need me for anything,” she said.
Dinah took the card, face showing nothing.
D E LU S I O N
141
“One last thing,” Lee Ann said. Dinah closed her eyes slowly, slowly opened them back up. Now the lines on her face were deep.
Lee Ann was tough, or was that just part of being a reporter, putting lines on people’s faces? “How well did Napoleon know Bobby Rice?”
she said.
“Not too well. He knew the other one better.”
“The other one?”
“The other detective.”
“Clay Jarreau?”
“Him.”
And what about the live lineup, the one that came a day or two after the photo spread: Was it possible there’d been no blue-eyed men standing behind the one-way glass, other than Alvin DuPree? Nell sat up in the night, her pulse racing. Clay was sleeping on his side, facing the other way. Moonlight came through the window, shone on his profile. For a moment, Nell saw how he would look as an old man.
She got up, walked out on the balcony. The moon hung high in the sky, only a half-moon but very bright. Her mind formed some connection between the half-moon and Clay’s profile, wanted her to take it further, but she couldn’t.
Something was floating in the pool. Nell put on her robe, went outside, found the skimmer and skimmed in what turned out to be a page from the
Guardian,
the print all blurred. Water ran down the pole of the skimmer and dripped on her arm. It felt warm. She took off her robe, slipped into the pool, started swimming, not fast, but on and on. The moon sank, lower and lower, was hidden behind the treetops by the time Nell climbed out, water dripping off her body the only sound. She wrapped herself in her robe and lay on one of the chaises. Now, with the moon so low, the stars seemed brighter.
So many, yet all those she saw were in just the one galaxy, the Milky Way—Johnny had taught her that. And how many galaxies were there?
D E LU S I O N
143
Not just billions and billions, Nellie, but billions times billions.
You see what this means?
That we’re next to nothing?
No, no—the opposite. The fact that we’re figuring it all out makes
us important, gives us meaning.
And what’s the meaning—
they’d been in bed at the time and she’d reached down under the covers—
of this?
Must be the strong force,
Johnny had said.
And she’d said:
We’ll see about that.
Nell opened her
eyes. The stars were gone and pale light was showing in the east. A breeze blew, hard enough to ripple the water in the pool. Nell shivered, got up, went inside. She had coffee brewing and was making toast when Clay walked into the kitchen, knotting his tie.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Lots to do,” Nell said, taking a quick glance at him; did he really not know she’d left their bed in the middle of the night? She poured a cup of coffee, set it before him on the butcher block.
“Like what?” he said; he raised the cup and made a little motion with it, thanking her.
“At work,” Nell said. “We’re going to put all the Civil War material in the atrium. Toast?”
“Please.”
She served him toast, with butter and peach jam, his favorite. Nell could smell his shampoo and aftershave, and beneath them his own smell, fresh and healthy, a smell she loved.
“Aren’t you having any?” he said.
“Maybe later,” said Nell. “Clay?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve had this idea, kind of strange.”
“Oh?” He buttered his toast, not looking up.
“It’s about Darryll Pines.”
“Go on.”
“Have you ever noticed his eyes?”
144
PETER ABRAHAMS
Now Clay looked up, his own eyes wary. “What about them?”
“They’re blue. Very light blue.”
“So?”
“The killer had eyes like that, very light blue—that’s one thing I’m sure of.”
Clay put down the butter knife. “You’re saying Darryll did it?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Asking what?”
“Where he was that night, for starters.”
Clay pushed his plate away. “Did Darryll know Johnny?” he said.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did he know you?”
“No.”
“Ever heard of Darryll getting involved in a robbery, or any crime at all?”
“No.”
“So he just up and murdered a man, a complete stranger, for no reason.”
Nell said nothing.
“Making him a pyscho,” Clay said. “You think Darryll’s a psycho?”
“I know there’s tension between the two of you—it even came out at—”
Clay banged his fist on the butcher block, hard and sudden. She jumped, maybe even let out a little cry: she’d never seen him do anything like that before. The butter knife spun through the air and clinked across the tiles. “There is no tension,” he said, his voice rising. He pointed his finger at her—another first. “This has got to stop.
You’re going to do damage.”
Nell was stunned, almost frozen in place, her eyes on his pointing finger. It was partly the aggressiveness of the gesture, so alien to him, and partly the reminder of the little finger tap over the pictured head of Alvin DuPree. Not the recent finger tap, here in their own kitchen, but twenty years before down at One Marigot: Had that really happened, or was it some kind of false or invented memory? Clay followed her gaze, lowered his hand, a pained expression crossing his face.
D E LU S I O N
145
“Please, Nell, enough,” he said, his voice now soft. “If there was a mistake, I feel bad about it . . .” He paused for a moment, as though his throat had thickened inside, choking off whatever was coming next. “. . . but there’s no reason you should.”
“But I do.”
“We’ve been through this. The system isn’t perfect. People aren’t perfect. But everybody”—he paused again, took a deep breath—“did their best.”
“I didn’t,” Nell said.
“Stop.”
But she couldn’t. Tears came, and she couldn’t stop them either.
Twenty years: there was no fixing something like that, no making it go away, not even a silver lining, so what would ever make this stop, her guilt, her doubt? Clay came around the butcher block, held her, patted her back. She calmed down.
“I want you to do something for me,” she said, her face against his shoulder, “even if you think it’s crazy.”
“What’s that?”
“Look into the old records. See if Darryll was working that night.”
Clay’s hands tightened on her back. “Those records are all gone—
Bernardine,” he said. “But I don’t need them. He was working.”
“How do you know?”
“Darryll was on the desk that night,” Clay said, “took the first call. Easy to remember.”
That should have wiped the Darryll idea from her mind; why didn’t it? Nell had another thought. “Are the lineup records gone, too?”
“Lineup records?”
“The names of the men I saw,” Nell said. “Pictures of their faces.”
He was silent. She felt him go still inside. “Did Bernardine get them, too?” she said.
“Nothing to get,” Clay said. “We don’t keep records of who the fillers were. There’s only one real suspect in a lineup—I thought you knew that.”
She knew it now, from her conversation with Professor Urbana.
146
PETER ABRAHAMS
Nell might have told him about Professor Urbana right then, but something about that stillness deep inside him stopped her. “I just have this worry,” she said.
“What worry?”
“That maybe, somehow . . .”
“Go on.”
“That DuPree was the only blue-eyed man in the lineup.”
Clay let her go, fast, reflexively, almost as though he’d been hit with an electric shock. He stared down at her. “Go on,” he said again.
“Go on?”
“You’re driving at something.”
“I’m not. I’m not driving at anything.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Has someone—Lee Ann, maybe—been putting ide—been influ-encing you?”
“Putting ideas in my head? Is that the way you see me?”
“I didn’t say putting ideas in your head. I said—”
“You did. Don’t lie to me.”
“What did you just say? You think I lie to you?”
“You just did. You—”
Norah walked in, her face still rumpled from sleep. The room went silent. Nell realized she and Clay had been out of control, totally.
“What’s going on?” Norah said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Nell said.
“Nothing? You’re screaming at each other. What happened?”
“Your mom and I were having a slight disagreement,” Clay said.
“Nothing to worry about.”
Norah looked from one to the other. Nell could read her mind:
But you never fight like this.
“A slight disagreement about what?”
Norah said.
“Nothing,” Nell said again. “Nothing important. Nothing to worry about.”
“About me?” Norah said. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”
“No,” Clay said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.” He walked up to Norah, moved to kiss her on the forehead. She backed away.
D E LU S I O N
147
His face tightened. “Everything’s all right,” he said. He checked his watch. “Got to run.” Clay walked over to Nell, kissed her forehead, barely touching. “See you tonight.”
“It really wasn’t
about me?” Norah said.
“No,” said Nell.
“Then what?”
“How about some breakfast?”
“What’s it about? What’s the problem?”
Nell poured coffee for Norah. Her hand wasn’t quite steady; some coffee splashed into the saucer. She took it to the sink, fetched another from the cupboard.
“Something to eat?”
“I want to know, Mom.”
“It’s just this case, honey, the tape and everything. It’s all very . . .”
Nell felt tears coming again, forced them back down; this, the loss of control, was unbearable to her, had to end. “. . . stressful, that’s all.”
“You and Dad disagree about it?”
Was Norah back to calling him Dad, as she had all her life, or was it just a slip? Had pizza with Joe Don improved her mood? The darkness in Nell’s mind started to recede. “Not really,” she said.
“Then what?”
“Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t worry.”
Norah sat down, sipped her coffee. Nell made an omelet, split it with Norah. Nell took one bite before her stomach closed up, but the sight of Norah eating lightened her mood a little more.
“Ines called yesterday,” Nell said.
“Yeah?”
“To see how you’re doing.”
Norah chewed slowly on her omelet.
“She wants you to call.”
“Uh-huh.”
Nell sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter. “Coffee all right?” she said.
“Yeah,” Norah said.
148
PETER ABRAHAMS
“I don’t think you ever mentioned Ines.”
“No?”
“What’s she like?”
“Nice.”
“I gather she lives in your old . . . your dorm?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where’s she from?”
Norah, gazing down at the remains of her omelet, said, “That’s enough questions.” Those words—their unexpectedness, the quiet delivery—gave Nell a sudden chill.
“What . . . what did you say?”
Norah looked up, anger in her eyes; her mood had changed completely. “You heard me.”
“Norah! What’s going on with you? What’s wrong?”
Norah laughed, a derisive laugh that scared Nell. Then she rose and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. Nell heard a muffled smash from the cupboard where she kept the good china.