No Way Home (32 page)

Morgan said, “That’s what I intend to do.”

Farnham said, “You’re a good man, Chief. Maybe too good for this job.”

In his office, Morgan examined his revolver. The bore, he suspected, was pitted. He pictured the whole business exploding in his hand. Swiveling in his chair, his back to the door, he tried firing it empty. It jammed. He called in Meg O’Brien.

“You still carry that little gun of yours in your bag?” he asked.

She cocked her head. “What do you want to know for?”

“I need to borrow it.”

“What for?”

“Just in case.”

“What’s the matter with yours?”

He pushed his across the desk. “Take a look at it,” he said, and she picked it up and examined it.

“Jesus jumping Christ, I see what you mean.” She went out and returned with her bag and took out her little gun, toy-sized and snub-nosed. “Before I give it to you, I want to know what you want it for.”

“I plan a serious talk with Papa Rayball, just him and me, but he may have guns in his house. I don’t want to stand there barefaced if he goes running for one.”

Hesitantly Meg relinquished her little weapon, well oiled and regularly cleaned, shiny as a new nickel. “You haven’t got much firepower there,” she said, “and it’s not too accurate, so aim at the body, not the head.”

“Meg, I was in Nam.”

“That was years ago, and this isn’t Nam. Don’t shoot yourself,” she said. Her voice was nervous. “He’s little, you could miss. Take Eugene with you. He’s feeling better. He hasn’t got his problem anymore.”

“That’s good, I didn’t like his color,” Morgan said. “But I don’t need him.” His eye went to the calendar block. “Could you do flowers for me? On one I’m a little late. You could have them sent to the house. Mrs. Poole.”

“I was wondering if you were going to do that. First name’s Christine, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He was embarrassed. “It’s proper, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if it’s proper, but I’ll do it.” She reached over and ripped the page off. “Before you go, Chief, could we sit here and talk awhile? About Matt?”

“Sure,” he said, “I’m in no real rush. Funny thing, but I feel I’ve got all the time in the world now. How about some coffee?”

• • •

At the crack of dawn Papa Rayball drove to the motor inn in Andover and knocked on Clement’s door. He did not tell Clement what was wrong, he merely said, “It’s Junior. You gotta come.” He drove back to Bensington in the pickup, a blood-soaked cap on the floor near his clutch foot. He was going to throw it out the window but decided it would be better burned. Clement followed several minutes later in the rental.

Papa stood waiting. The rains of the night had taken away some of the heat. The humid air was almost pleasant. When Clement got out of the car, Papa raised an arm and let it fall. “I’ve lost him, Clement. I’ve lost my boy.”

Clement turned his face away for a moment. “What are you telling me, Papa?”

“He came back busted up. Someone must’ve done it to him at that whorehouse. He’s dead, Clement.”

Clement gazed over Papa’s head. Pines beyond the back of the house looked unready for the world, as if a child had sketched them and applied too little crayon. “Where is he?”

“He’s in his room. I put him there. I cleaned him up best I could. I changed his shirt, and I put clean socks on him. He didn’t have any washed, so I gave him a pair of mine. Same fit.”

Clement went into the house, and Papa followed. Junior was on the cot, where Papa had lain him out straight, brought the hands together, one over the other, and placed the folded army blanket over the waist and legs. The stockinged feet protruded.

“He was born broken, and he died worse. Not my fault, Clement. I brought him up best I could, same as I did you. But we had the whole town against us, the old chief and then this one. Ain’t anyone ever been fair to us.”

Clement stared at his brother. Traces of blood remained on the face, as if the thorns of roses had embraced it. Then Clement could look no more. He went into the kitchen and stood by the sink. Papa came out and stood by the stove. Neither spoke for a while. Then Papa did.

“I was layin’ him out, I had my final words with him. Told him I was never ‘shamed of him. Told him he was my flesh and blood.”

“Like you never knew that, huh, Papa?”

“I wanna bury him here. This is where he belongs.”

A streamer of sunlight transported dust. Peering through it, Clement saw a stunted and withered old man with a prehensile look. Peering harder, he remembered old stories his grandmother had told about Rayballs who had lived in the woods, shunned commitments, and wiped their snot on their wrists, scrappy and scrawny critters in daily danger of being mistaken by hunters for small game.

Papa said, “The way you’re lookin’ at me, maybe I oughta dig two graves. One for me.”

“Maybe we should put him out there, with his mama,” Clement said, pointing toward the window, the direction unmistakable.

“She ain’t there.”

“He thought she was.”

Seconds later Clement was outdoors, and Papa was at his heels. Clement headed toward the woodpile, the top of which was sheeted with plastic. Papa said, “You’re serious, ain’t you? You can’t dig there.”

“You don’t have to dig.”

Papa grabbed at him. “I want you to promise me something. I got the name and address of that whorehouse written out. You go there, Clement, you get the one who bashed him. You promise?”

With an air of fatality Clement said, “First things first.”

• • •

Christine Poole sat by a tall window and looked out at the green grounds. The round ornamental pond glittered gold in the sun. Arlene Bowman said, “The scent is delicious.” The voice did not bother her. It was simply there, like the furniture, the flowers. The flowers were on the mantel and two tables. “So many,” Arlene said, “but none, I notice, from Morgan.”

Christine faintly heard her. Her thoughts were on two men, both gone, one buried, the other cremated. She remembered how her first husband’s death had emptied the familiar of meaning, had left the suits he had once filled hanging alien in the closet. Rooms in which his voice had vibrated gaped with silence. His favorite chair was hollow, his place at the dinner table vacant. The Persian carpet he had bought at a close-out still conveyed an imperishable quality of design but felt different under her feet. As it had been then with his death, so it was now with Calvin’s.

“The nice thing, of course, is that you don’t have to worry about money,” Arlene said, moving away from the mantel. “That would add insult to injury.”

She wondered whether in time she would confuse the two of them, whether they would slip into each other’s clothes to play ghostly guessing games, with one tugging at her heart in the guise of the other.

“Money is the key,” Arlene said. “My father killed himself over it, and Gerald is uncomfortable with men who make more than he does. He says money makes the man. Which is true.”

Christine’s composure teetered when Arlene moved into her line of vision. The woman looked ravishing, all lovely arms and legs in a little black dress that could have been inked on. At the same time, as Arlene drew closer, Christine felt something in herself dry up.

“It does something for women too. Keeps us fresh. I don’t intend to grow old. I want always to be new. And you, Christine, no reason for you to grow old. We’ll work some more on your weight. You’ve already lost some, I can see.”

Arlene, hovering, was giving her all her attention, which became too much to bear, too much for anyone to bear. She rose from her chair, unsteady, unwell. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

The carpet muffled her steps. Somewhere people were laughing, joking, exquisitely enjoying themselves, all ignorant of what lay ahead. A bride this moment might be tossing a bouquet. Enjoy it while you can, she thought. She entered the game room, where her elder son, throwing darts, haunted her with his looks. They were every bit like his father’s.

She said, “Get that woman out of here.”

• • •

Fred Fossey’s eyes drank her in. She hadn’t been fooling. She had brought sandwiches and a cold thermos of lemonade, real lemons, not from the mix. “I told you I would,” May Hutchins said and handed him a paper cup. The sandwiches were roast beef, meant for a man. They sat facing each other on the grass near the markers, Flo and Earl’s. Fred’s face glowed. He was taking big bites and enjoying each.

“This is great, May. Honest to God, it’s really great.”

“Wasn’t any bother bringing it. I thought it’d be fun.” The red tips of her hair sizzled in the sun. “I saw you coming out of the library yesterday with a bunch of books. You must read a lot.”

“I’m a student of military history, May. Right now I’m on the big wars, One and Two. ‘Course, the Korean War’s my favorite because I fought in it.”

“Stands to reason. How’s the lemonade?”

“Delicious.”

“And the sandwich?”

“Even better. This is good beef.” He stopped chewing and looked into her eyes. “When you saw me at the library, why didn’t you holler?”

“Well, there’s a time and place for everything. You got mustard on the corner of your mouth.” She leaned forward and wiped it off with her pinky.

“Your hair looks nice,” he said. “It’s different from the last time.”

“Really? I don’t take much time with it. I know I’m not pretty,” she said, lowering her eyes, and instantly he moved closer, spilling his lemonade. “Don’t worry,” she said, “there’s plenty more.”

“May, don’t you know you’re beautiful?”

Her voice went shy. “I guess I need someone to tell me.”

His arm was around her, with one thing leading to another. His mouth moved from her cheek to her lips. He frenched her and felt her tremble. He was mussing the hair she had fixed so nicely. Her mouth fought free.

“What are we doing, Fred?”

“Everything.” His hand was under her dress. Her legs were bare. “Have you ever done it in a cemetery, May?”

“Never.” Then she was laughing, like a girl. “Not in front of Flo, Fred. We can’t.”

“Let her watch. Let her know we’re both happy.”

They were both laughing, joking, enjoying exquisite fun. “Earl’s there too,” she said.

“He knows what men and women do.” He was having trouble with his trousers. The zipper was caught on the fly of his boxer undershorts, and he had to rip it clear.

“Oh, Fred, you’re too big.”

“Bigger than your hubby?”

“Much.”

Then he was on her, and her hand was trying to make it right when a terrible rumble came upon them and then a roar. They leaped to their feet as a pickup truck bounced by with the face of a little man snarling at them. “It’s that damn Papa Rayball,” Fred hissed.

May was frantically brushing her dress. “I’m
so
embarrassed.”

“We can finish it.”

“No, we can’t. Ever!”

• • •

Chief Morgan climbed warily out of his car. The pickup wasn’t there, which meant Papa wasn’t. Nobody was, he sensed it. All the same, he was glad he had brought along Meg’s toy, which was a lump in his pocket, like a week’s supply of small change. His eyes darting here and there, he tried to sort out what was making him uneasy. The woodpile looked the same and yet not the same. Things seemed altered, just a degree. The chorus of birds should have been reassuring, but a cardinal outdoing itself set his teeth on edge. Moving toward the house, he saw something small that had been burned on the ground, the ashes black. Cloth, he suspected. Going down on a knee, he detected a lingering stench that suggested a bit of plastic and something else, impossible to tell what.

The door had been left unlatched, and he stepped inside with his eyes absorbing everything in the cramped kitchen. A dripping water tap attacked his ear. Poking around, he saw a damp, blood-stained towel in the trash bucket and wondered what Papa had been killing. Years ago Papa had kept rabbits for eating, then shot them all when he got sick of the meat and they got out of hand.

He peeked into Junior’s room. An army blanket covered the cot. Junior’s old tattered sneakers had been tossed in a corner, the heels worn lopsided. He backed off, with no intention of searching for the F-l sniper’s rifle. He did not want to waste time looking for what wasn’t there. What had disquieted him outside disquieted him more inside the house. He did not like the air, as if something, maybe the whole house, were going to blow up.

Back on the road, he drove randomly to give his mind a rest and his muscles time to relax. The road meandered, and the sky hurled down its brightness. Again, like Lydia, he wished the summer were over, no more dragons in his sleep, the little he was getting. Approaching the cemetery, he swerved fast as a car came out and almost hit his. The driver was Fred Fossey.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, backing up.

Fred Fossey had slammed on the brakes and was now trying to restart the engine. “I’m sorry,” he said out of a flushed face. “I was paying respects to Earl and Flo till Papa Rayball spoiled it all. He’s in there barreling around in his pickup, like he’s looking for his wife’s grave and can’t find it.” Fossey got the engine started. “You want my advice, Chief, you oughta arrest the old coot.”

Sounds came from the town clerk’s office. Malcolm Crandall was alone in there, but he had grown into the habit of talking to himself. Quite distinctly, as Meg O’Brien was passing the open door, Crandall said, “Fuck them all.”

“I hope that doesn’t include me,” Meg said, stopping in her tracks.

He reddened only for a second. “Our town’s going to hell,” he said. “It used to be nice and quiet, a pretty place to live, even with all those newcomers tearing up the woods, but now everything’s bad. Flo and Earl Lapham dying like they did, and now Matt MacGregor killing himself.”

“It was an accident,” she fired back.

“We all know what it was,” Crandall said. He had latching eyebrows, which in moments like this gave him a fierce look. “It’s not hard to put two and two together. That state cop knew what he was doing, the chief didn’t, or else he was covering up.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Malcolm.”