Silent Witness (71 page)

The gym felt vast, dark. The hardwood floor creaked beneath his feet.

The basketball hoops, the wooden stands, were shadows. Somewhere on the wall above him, a banner recorded the names of those who had become the Athlete of the Year.

Beneath the basket, Sam turned toward the locker room. It felt strange for this place to be so dark, so silent. . . .

Like the gym, the locker room was dark. Fumbling his way to the sinks and mirrors, Sam switched on the light. In the mirror was a man with soft jowls, graying temples. There was blood on his face and hair.

Sam's retching echoed in the locker room.

Pale, Sam washed the blood and vomit from his face. His hands were trembling: this man, this stranger, could not be him.

The janitors would be working now, perhaps would hear him. Perhaps one might wander in to take a leak.

Hurrying to the shower, Sam stripped off his clothes and shoes, then washed the blood from his hair.

Inside his locker was a second pair of sweat clothes, a new pair of tennis shoes. Sitting on the bench, Sam dressed with clumsy fingers.

Panicky, Sam towel-dried his hair, stuffed the bloody shoes and sweat clothes and towel into his gym bag, and crossed the locker room to turn out the lights. Gym bag in one hand, he cracked open the door to the gym.

More lights struck his eyes.

The head janitor, Mike Griggs, was cleaning the floor with a mop. Heart racing, Sam shut the door. Its click was loud.

Fearful, Sam wheeled in the dark.

Sam rushed to the other door. He pushed it open, and then the night air hit his face.

The public parking lot was beyond the football field. It was dark; Sam could barely see the goalposts. Blindly, he began running toward the lot.

As Sam reached the parking lot, he slowed, searching his memory.

The storm drain was at the corner of the lot, Sam suddenly remembered; after Tony had left him at the pier, he had driven here and sat beneath the goalposts, drinking, before he threw the empty bottle down the drain.

Stooping, Sam pushed everything between the slots of the metal drain: clothes, shoes, towel, the bag itself. It was beginning to drizzle; Sam could hear the water flowing through the hollow pipes below.

He was sober now, himself.

Rushing across the field, he got in his car and drove away. It was 10:55.

Composing himself, he stopped at a pay phone to call Sue. That she did not answer was both worry and relief. The four minutes to his home felt endless now.

Sam opened the bedroom door.

Sue was in bed, filing her nails, half listening to the eleven o'clock news.

‘I tried to call you,' he said.

She looked up at him, incurious. ‘I must have been in the shower,' she said, and then frowned. ‘Broke another nail – my hands look like a washerwoman's.'

Somehow this made Sam want to kiss her. But he stopped himself; he did not know what behavior might seem odd, or repentant. He changed into his boxer shorts and crawled into bed.

‘I'm tired,' he said, content to tell the truth.

Sue had noticed nothing.

Now she slept. Sam lay next to her in the dark, torn between horror and disbelief. Over and over, he saw a man in a car, caught in headlights. A man who could not be him.

Closing his eyes, Sam listened to the rise and fall of Sue's breathing, as if it were his own.

Tomorrow he would be himself again.

Perhaps, then, he should go to the police: when Sam was himself, people had always believed him. Even Tony.

Across the bedroom, Tony looked into the face of the man who had raped and strangled Alison Taylor, who had changed the course of his life, and then had used him, so many years later, to escape the consequences of killing Marcie Calder.

His voice was soft. ‘It doesn't matter, you said. I could tell you if I murdered Alison.'

Sam's fingers still grazed the drawer. ‘You could have, Tony. But I could never tell
you
. . . .'

‘Could I have murdered Sue, then? Would that have been all right with you?'

Sam drew himself up. ‘You slept with her, then lied to me, and I forgave you. Do you think I couldn't see what happened that night, or couldn't tell how different she was when I touched her? It made me crazy, but I let it go. For both our sakes.'

Tony felt the slow, sick anger overcome him again. ‘I guess that made us even, didn't it. That made it all right for me to get you off when you killed a second girl. Especially if I slept with Sue again.' Tony's voice quivered now. ‘What was the best part, Sam? Asking if I was “fucking” Sue? Or manipulating your smart friend Tony, so blinded by being accused of killing Alison that I resolved all doubts in your favor?'

Sam was pale now. ‘You make it sound like a game. . . .'

‘Alison, Sue, this trial – it was
all
a game we played, wasn't it. Except you were the only one who understood the rules.' Tony paused, edging closer. ‘It must have been fun to have me back again. For one last round.'

Sam slowly shook his head. ‘That was Sue's idea, not mine. I didn't
mean
for any of it to happen. Sometimes I felt like it never really had.' His voice fell. ‘I competed with you, sure. But you were
part
of me. There were times – even now – when you were more important than anyone.' Sam's face contorted in pain. ‘It wasn't easy to tell you, pal. When no one knew, it wasn't real. Now I look at you, and I know it's real. Because
you
do.'

In the trapped silence, Tony forgot everything but the man in front of him, and what he had done to Alison. ‘It won't be just the two of us much longer, Sam. If Stella reads the report, she'll see what
I
saw.' His voice was taut with anger. ‘Were I Stella, I'd charge you with both murders in a single trial. Which would make it pretty hard for you to blame Ernie.'

Sam's eyes grew hazy; with a savage pleasure, Tony watched the knowledge of Sam's own ruin overtake him. Reflexively, Sam said, ‘You're my
lawyer
, Tony –'

‘You mean there are
rules
?' Tony cut in. ‘That I can't do this to you? That it isn't
fair
? Then let me explain to you how the rules are going to work with Alison.

‘I found her strangled. That makes me a
witness
, Sam. As well as a suspect.' Driven by rage, Tony took another step forward. ‘But even if I weren't, there's nothing to stop me from asking Stella to run those tests. And you know what a clever woman
she
is.'

Sam's eyes glinted with an anger of their own. All at once, Tony saw the humiliation, the sense of betrayal, that could drive Sam Robb to kill. ‘I can't let you fuck me over, Tony.'

Tony fought for self-control. ‘You're a double murderer,' he said softly, ‘and you're still saying you're not like that. This needs to end.'

Sam reached into the drawer. Tony felt his mouth go dry. ‘It's too late, Sam. . . .'

Silent, Sam drew out a black revolver.

The reality of a gun aimed at his chest struck Tony like a blow. He thought of Christopher, of Stacey. Though Sam was flushed, his gaze was cold and level, as if the balance between them had been restored. Then Tony saw them in the mirror.

‘Look at us.' As he nodded toward the mirror, there was a tremor in Tony's voice. ‘Can you really do that, Sam?'

Sam glanced at them: two men – one with a gun in his hand; the other, perhaps, about to die. His hand trembled slightly. ‘I never thought it would come to this, Tony. You were my friend.'

Tony watched the revolver. ‘If
you
were the “friend”
I
used – twice – would you just let it go? Would
you
want to risk having another girl die, a third pair of parents on your conscience?' Tony could not keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘That is, if you were me.'

Sam looked him in the face now. Quietly, he asked, ‘But what if
you
were
me
?'

Tony drew a breath. ‘I'd know that the game was over. That Sue will know, that the town will know, that everyone will know. That if you murder me, cold sober,
you'll
know. And you'll know that you made my wife and son suffer like the Taylors, or the Calders.' Tony's voice was soft again. ‘Are you like that, Sam? Is that what you want me to die knowing?'

Eyes moist, Sam took two steps forward. ‘I can't let you turn me in, Tony.'

Three feet separated them now: taut, Tony prepared himself to lunge at the gun in Sam's hand. ‘What about Sue?' Tony asked. ‘Do you want her to know
this
?'

Sam's face filled with anguish. ‘Don't talk about Sue,' he said. ‘Don't use her on me anymore.'

Tony swallowed. ‘Then you'll have to decide.'

When Sam raised the revolver, gently placing it to Tony's forehead, Tony found that he was surprised, after all. He could not move. ‘Jesus, Sam. Jesus . . .'

Slowly, Sam nodded, tears running down his face. ‘It has to be one of us, Tony.'

Feeling the gun to his head, Tony looked into the face of his friend; Sam's eyes were as filled with emotion as they had been in those first seconds in the end zone, the height of their time together, perhaps the height of Sam's life. Tony looked back at him, too afraid to speak.

‘Can't let you win,' Sam said quietly. ‘You know how it is.'

Sam stepped backward, gun aimed at Tony, eyes locked on his face. ‘Bye, pal,' Sam said.

Tony's voice trembled. ‘Sam . . .'

Smiling slightly, Sam put the gun to his own temple. ‘You lose,' he said, and pulled the trigger.

Tony winced.

A piece of Sam's brain spat from the side of his head. Then he buckled, falling to his knees, still gazing up at Tony. He stayed there a moment, kneeling, his eyes glazed, unseeing, his arms at his sides. The gun clattered on the floor. Then Sam toppled sideways, and was still.

Paralyzed, Tony stared at Sam in some twilight of consciousness, unable to accept what had happened, what he was seeing now.

The door opened behind him.

Sue gasped. It was this that awakened Tony. He turned to her, and then, stricken, they stared at Sam together.

The bullet had not changed his expression, or much about his face. He lay there, still smiling, as if he had fallen asleep. A strange thought came to Tony: this was how they had watched him, lying in his hammock, on the night of the prom.

When Sue turned to him again, tears running down her face, Tony wondered if she had thought of this too.

Tony put his arms around her. He found that they both were crying: for Sam, Tony was certain; for Alison; for Marcie Calder; and for all the memories, forever changed, that each of them would have to face.

At last, Tony took Sue's hand and led her gently from the bedroom. Turning, Sue looked back at the man on the floor, her husband, Tony's friend, the murderer of two teenage girls.

Tony stayed on, to help Sue.

The day before Sam's burial, Tony made a statement to a room filled with reporters, photographers, and television cameras.

He spoke first for Sue Robb and for her children, expressing their shock at what they had learned, their deep sadness for the families of Sam's victims, their wish to mourn in private. Briefly, he described Sam's death: that Sam had admitted killing Alison Taylor and Marcie Calder; that he was torn by guilt and shame; and that – burdened by conscience – he had taken his own life. He did not mention the autopsy report or his role in confronting Sam.

Finally, Tony spoke for himself. The jury had been correct, he said. Based on the evidence, they should not have convicted; only Sam Robb knew the truth, and Sam Robb at last had told it. All that was left for Tony was to apologize to Ernie Nixon.

‘I implicated an innocent man,' he said, ‘without any real belief that Ernie Nixon was capable of murder.

‘Mr. Nixon did nothing wrong.
I
did. Marcie Calder was Sam Robb's victim, and Ernie Nixon was mine. Everyone in Lake City should know that.'

Tony left without taking questions, or addressing his own relationship to Alison Taylor. Anything further he had to say would be in private.

Sue and her children buried Sam quietly. Tony was not there.

Instead, as Sam was laid to rest, Tony completed his confession, begun twenty-eight years before. A soft-voiced priest, a shadow in the confessional, listened.

When he was seventeen, Tony said, he had made love with Alison Taylor. He could not think this a sin. But this had led to other sins; perhaps, Tony said, he had misconceived the lessons he had learned. For he had abandoned his faith to make a religion of the law and then, faced with his arrogance and folly, had abandoned even that.