No Way Home (35 page)

“He might’ve found a way back,” Clement said and, snapping a crisp new bill, slipped the man a hundred. “Let me talk to the women.”

“No trouble, is there?”

“No trouble at all.”

“I got three early birds, that’s all, only two today. Nice girls.” He told Clement the room numbers, both on the same floor. “You might wanna try one. One puts on a show, good single act.”

Clement, though unaware of it, retraced his brother’s steps. The smell of disinfectant followed him up the stairs and invoked memories he swiftly purged from his mind. A white woman with sleep in her eyes remembered Junior, but little else. She blocked a yawn, tightened her robe, and said, “I had to look twice, I thought he was a kid.”

A black woman said, “Yeah, my guy hit him. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Clement said, with another note in his hand, as crisp as the first one. “Who was the guy?”

“His name’s Sal. He makes book out of a convenience store around the corner. You won’t miss him. He’s got holes in his face.” She tucked the money away. “Don’t tell him I told.”

“I won’t,” he said and started to walk away.

“It wasn’t the kid’s fault,” she called out. “We get animals in here.”

The store was no more than a hole in the wall, with a sign outside that said
corner variety
and with an unaired smell inside. Girlie and macho magazines consumed a wall. Bread and milk appeared to be the major grocery items. The man behind the counter did indeed have holes in his face, as if he had survived debris from a shotgun. Clement said, “Hi, Sal, how you doing?”

Sal scrutinized him. “You a cop?”

“No, but yesterday you slammed my brother over the head. What the hell did you use?”

“That little turd was your brother?” Sal laughed. “Yeah, I hit him. I was pay in’ to watch somethin’, he was grabbin’ a peek. Simple as that.” Sal laid a plumbing pipe on the counter, the length of a baton. “He’s a pervert. You got an argument about it?”

“No,” Clement said. “Sounds like he deserved it.”

14

It was a Saturday in September, a rather pleasant one after such an uncomfortable summer, which had ended with a drought. Autumn colors haunted the trees. Fleets of birds were already sailing south. The lilies that had exalted the paved path to the Congregational church had vanished, leaving behind forlorn stalks with empty prongs. Mrs. Stottle’s garden, which had grown so riotously, was subsiding, withdrawing, which did not displease Reverend Stottle.

He was sitting in the garden with a notebook in his lap. He was mulling over what might perhaps be his last sermon, for it was clear that the board, Randolph Jackson in particular, wanted his resignation, which if not rendered soon would be forced from him. By his elbow was a glass of milk and a half-depleted dish of Oreo cookies. Earlier he had jotted down ideas on his napkin but later absently wiped his mouth on them, expunging them forever. He heard the sound of a car. Mrs. Stottle was home. He hoped she would not disturb him.

His fine-tip felt marker was poised over his open notebook. If this was to be his last sermon, it must sing in the voice of the ages. It must resound. It must reach a bellow. It must — Mrs. Stottle came upon him.

“Austin.”

“Yes, my dear.”

She was excited, her smile inordinately bright. “I went to plead your case to Mr. Jackson, but I didn’t have to.”

“I specifically told you not to,” he said, reaching for a cookie. “Let God’s will prevail.”

“Mrs. Dugdale’s is better. They finally found it. Her old lawyer didn’t even know he had it. Excuse my French, Austin, but Mrs. Dugdale has saved your ass.”

He bit into the cookie. “Please, Sarah.”

“She left the church a bundle and named you sole authority over the funds until — and I’m quoting now — ’until such time as Reverend Mister Stottle voluntarily retires.’ Those were her words fifteen years ago, valid then, valid now.”

He was impressed, but not all that much, and told himself he would not have another cookie. He knitted his brow the way he used to in Bible college when resolving never again to play with himself.

Mrs. Stottle laughed. “Sweet adorable bumblehead, I’m talking six figures.”

He caught on. God, full of eternal goodness, had looked down upon him. God, who might mercifully grant a full house to a prayerful poker player accustomed to two pairs, had given him a royal flush. With this new hand, he said, “The question is whether I want to stay here or go to another parish.”

“No other parish will take you, dingdong. You know that.”

“I might simply retire.”

“Your pension will be a pittance. Play that game with Mr. Jackson when he comes, not with me.”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yes. To ask you to stay.” She leaned over and kissed him on the head. Then she was gone.

With a hint of rapture, his eyes smarted with happy tears. Breaking his resolution as easily as he had at Bible college, he snatched up another Oreo and poised the felt marker over the virgin notepaper. Inspired, he wrote, “Some of you may wonder what happened to the heads during the days of the guillotine. The answer is simple: God put them back.”

Arlene Bowman played an hour of hard tennis with another woman from the Heights, who was a little younger and a little better than she, which gave the play more meaning. She felt vital. “We must do this again,” she said to her partner, who had to hurry off to retrieve her small children from a lawn party at Pike School in Andover.

Strolling back to the clubhouse, tapping her racquet against her knee, she noticed a crowd on the links. The draw was Crack Alexander, who had a mighty drive. Some said he looked as good with a club as he had with a bat. Shading her eyes, she glimpsed Sissy Alexander, who was among his fawning admirers, and wondered what he wanted his wife there for.

Conspicuously leggy in her dazzling tennis whites, she entered the lounge and looked for a place at the crowded bar. She hoisted herself onto a high chair next to a man named Dick, who smiled at his good luck and greeted her by name. He had an overabundance of pampered silver-toned hair that could have been a crown of fur from a fine animal. His eyes were an uncertain blue. Perhaps they were gray, like the chief’s.

“You look terrific,” he said. His voice was enthusiastic, her response was not. A knee resting against hers, he told an off-color story, which did not amuse her. The man was an asshole. A past tennis partner, he had been trying to make her for months. “How’s that husband of yours?” he asked.

“How’s that wife of yours?” she replied, letting him pay for her drink. She enjoyed watching him get nothing for his money.

“I read in the paper he’s in a bit of trouble.”

“Nothing he can’t get out of.”

“This looks serious.”

“If you look real deep into anything, anything at all, what you find is a joke. Have you ever looked deep into anything, Dick?”

“Yes,” he said, his knee pressing. “Your eyes.”

She finished her drink and left. She drove with the windows open, enjoyed the carnival colors of autumn, and let her hair blow. Oakcrest Heights looked especially beautiful. The roadside flamed with sumac and fire bush.

She stepped from her car and headed for the door. She was home early. She would be a surprise, welcome or unwelcome. Gerald had not been himself for a long while, a bear one day and a lamb the next. She left her racquet on the foyer table, where she sorted mail and saw nothing of interest. Stepping away, her eye caught a flash of color. She moved toward the sitting room, looked in, and froze. Her husband was wearing one of her dresses, one of Roberta’s best.

Caught flagrante delicto, no moves to make, he smiled while attempting to conceal a ruptured seam. “How do I look?”

“Charming,” she said and turned on her heel.

She sped back to the country club. She left her car in a space reserved for the handicapped and, walking fast, ran both hands through her hair. The lounge was still crowded, but Dick was no longer at the bar. He was sitting at a table with someone she knew vaguely, a dowdy woman from the Heights who was breaking out of her shell and trying to look pretty.

“Tell her to screw.”

“Screw,” Dick said, and the woman nearly fell over her chair in leaving.

Arlene sat down hard. “I need a drink.”

Dick grinned. “Your turn to pay.”

• • •

Christine Poole spent the morning at the Total Beauty Spa in Andover, where fabulous-looking women who did not look their age steamed and bathed her body, pampered her skin with oils, teased her muscles with infallible moves, unraveled her tensions, and reinforced her worth. Later she wriggled into her jeans. She had not dared to wear jeans in years. Then she slipped on her silk shirt and put repairing hands to her hair, which was a different color now, a shade she had always wanted to try. The manager, Leona, said, “You look fabulous, Mrs. Poole.”

Before leaving, she gave a last look at herself in the wall mirror. Light lay furtively in her hair as if at any moment it might be shooed away. Her breasts were pronounced. She had lost weight everywhere but there, which she decided was not so bad. Swiveling sideways, she smiled at herself over the curve of her shoulder.

Back in Bensington, she stopped at Tuck’s and bought a small container of salad at the deli section, which was a recent addition. The quaintness of the store was little more than a memory now. Returning to her car, she saw Chief Morgan ambling across the green and waited for him.

“How are you, James?”

He blinked and smiled. “Christine?”

“Didn’t recognize me, did you?”

“You look wonderful,” he said. Briefly he took her hand. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

“I got your flowers. Thank you.” For a moment her face was her former one. “They say it was an accident, but I know what it was. No one will ever convince me otherwise. But I’m not letting it get to me.” She smiled. “Tell me about you. Is there anyone special in your life?”

“I guess you could say that. Problem is, she’s not always there. She’s in and out.”

“Another one of those things, huh, James?”

“It would be easier if it were,” he said.

“It’s serious, then.”

“On my part.”

Her face hardened at the mouth. “What did you ever see in me?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

“What did
I
see in you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I know,” she said. “And you probably do too. It was my first husband. I talked about him enough.”

“I gathered he was a terrific guy.”

“He was terrific, but I made him out to be more than he was.”

“Yes,” he said, “we tend to do things like that, don’t we?”

She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Do you care who saw that?”

“No,” he said. “It adds to my reputation.”

“Good-bye, James.”

“Good-bye,” he said.

• • •

For his birthday, the tenth of September, Meg O’Brien had given him a handgun, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol, to replace his worthless revolver, which he had fired only once in the line of duty, at a dog frothing at the mouth. Sitting at his desk, he slid the massive pistol in and out of its shiny black holster and could not imagine aiming it at another human being. You needed both hands to steady it and a certain kind of brain to fire it. He slid it into a bottom drawer.

His birthday had been two weeks before. Lydia Lapham, vacationing in Bermuda with her aunt, had sent him a card with love and kisses, which was less than it sounded. Her handwriting was hurried, and she had neglected to include the zip in the address, which delayed the arrival. She was back now and had her house up for sale in a soft market.

Before that, in the midst of the August drought, he had attended a police conference in Chicago, where he sneaked off each day to watch the Bulls in preseason practice. He watched Michael Jordan and could not believe his eyes. Not once but several times he saw Jordan leap into space, defy gravity, and with absolute grace dislocate himself to make an impossible shot. Like a kid, he later stood in line for an autograph. When Jordan looked down at him from the heights, he said, “It’s for my son.”

Back in July, when people thought the heat would hold the summer in place forever, Papa Rayball’s body was fished free of the Merrimack in Newburyport, near the mouth of the river. It was on its way to the sea when it washed up on a shoal and was discovered by a boater. Morgan tried to reach Clement Rayball in Florida but could not locate him. He used the money left over from Junior’s funeral to pay for Papa’s and tucked the receipts away in the event Clement ever wanted to see them.

He did not have Clement’s address, but he had his statement, which he made public the day he received it. It satisfied a lot of people in town because it meant that now Flo and Earl Lapham were laid to rest and others could go to bed at night without fear. Some felt shame for their insinuations about Matt MacGregor, whose sister established a thousand-dollar scholarship at the high school in his memory. Lydia attended the ceremony, but Morgan did not, for which some people faulted him. Most, however, agreed that he was not such a bad police chief after all and began joking again about his love life.

No one made much of Junior Rayball’s death, especially since it appeared he had been assaulted not in Bensington but in Boston. The only one who grieved for him, as far as Morgan could tell, was Tish Hopkins, who came into the station wearing her overalls and boots and asked whether his killer would be caught.

Tucked in Junior’s file folder was a crime clipping from the Boston
Herald
, which Morgan had inserted two days after Clement’s visit. A man known as Sal the Face had been run down on the street moments after he had closed his convenience store for the night. The motorist, described as a deeply tanned Caucasian male, reportedly turned around and ran over the victim again. The car, which had been stolen near the Public Garden, was recovered near the Common. The organized-crime unit of the Boston Police Department was treating it as a gangland slaying.

Something had made Morgan read the article twice, simply a feeling, that was all, and after he clipped it out he slipped it into Junior’s folder. As good a place as any.