Silent Witness (8 page)

Alison looked up at him in inquiry and then smiled a little, as if with secret knowledge. Something about this made him feel embarrassed, yet closer to her.

‘Did I hurt you?' he asked.

‘Only a little. I don't break, you know.'

This was said with a certain proud authority; she had things to teach him, the words implied, and yet they carried an undertone of relief – she was past something, and now it was beyond worry.

‘I'm sorry,' Tony said.

‘For what?'

‘That you didn't . . .' He hesitated. ‘Did you?'

‘I don't think so.' A pause of her own, and then another slight smile. ‘I think it's going to take a little practice.'

Suspended between relief and embarrassment, Tony pondered her meaning. She raised her face to kiss him, and told him quietly, ‘I'm glad this was with you.'

Touching her hair, he felt a wave of gratitude. ‘I want us to be together. Always.'

‘So do I. Always.'

He smiled; beneath him, she wriggled slightly. ‘Can you move a little?' she asked. ‘Not off me, I don't want that. I just need to breathe.'

He shifted on his elbow, and then she gazed at him more softly. ‘Did I feel good to you?' she asked.

‘God, yes.'

The small smile returned. ‘At the end, I could feel it happen to you.'

All at once, Tony felt their deepening bond, like nothing he had felt with Mary Jane.
We did it
, he felt himself thinking,
and we're all right. This could not be a sin
.

He barely remembered to look at his watch.

It was 11:40. Tony held her closer, murmuring, ‘I never want this night to end.'

They fell briefly quiet, darkness around them, complete within their world. Almost dreamily, Alison said, ‘Maybe I can come back out.'

It surprised him. ‘Without your parents knowing?'

‘I think so.' She brushed the hair back from his face. ‘I want to be with you again. I hate this stupid curfew.'

In the back of his brain, Tony felt his sense of sin resurface and, with it, prudence. ‘I don't want you to get in trouble.'

Alison shook her head. ‘Once I'm in, they'll fall asleep. I can go down the back stairs, out the rear door, and through my backyard to here.'

‘Can you find your way?'

She gave a quick nod. ‘I used to play hide-and-seek here all the time. I could find you with my eyes shut. If you want me to.'

Tony paused, ashamed of his cowardice. ‘I want you to,' he said.

Hurriedly, they began to dress, newly giddy with defiance and conspiracy. Pulling on her stockings, Alison stopped. ‘I don't need these,' she said with a decisive air, and stuffed them in her purse. ‘She'll never notice.' The grin she gave him was careless and triumphant.

They scurried out of the back seat, each wiping condensation off the windows with their hands. But the glass was still too smudged to see through. The clock read 11:57.

‘Don't worry,' Alison said. ‘I can go home that way too.'

‘I'll go with you.'

Together, they headed through the shadowy trees, tentative and a little scared. ‘Dark,' Tony whispered.

She took his hand. ‘I know.'

They reached the open field and began running across the park.

The night was overcast, close to moonless. A line of oaks separated the park from the Taylors' home; Tony could see the oaks only as a deeper darkness. All that he heard were their own running footsteps, ragged breaths.

They reached the trees. Through them, Tony saw the outline of the gabled house, looming as if a shadow, the faint glow of a light left on in back.

‘We should stop,' Alison whispered.

Tony brought her close. ‘I'll wait for you here.'

She shook her head. ‘It's cold out. You can keep the car warm.'

They looked at each other.

Without hurry, Alison kissed him, slowly and deeply. Tony did not want to let her go.

Alison pulled back. ‘We've just used my final minute,' she said, and smiled again. ‘See you in about fifteen.'

Before he could answer, she gave him a last brief kiss and was running toward the house.

Suddenly alone, Tony watched her vanish in the darkness, then reappear, wraithlike, in the light of the back porch. She turned, waving, and then the light went off.

Still parked where they had made love, Tony waited for Alison to return. The clock read 12:26.

It was cold. Tony turned on the heater, then the radio.

Time felt sluggish. As Bobbie Gentry sang ‘Ode to Billy Joe,' Tony found himself silently counting, hoping that this would materialize Alison before he reached one hundred. It felt like part of him was missing.

The clock passed 12:40.

Restless, Tony strained to remember the feel of her, the way she had looked at him. When ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' came on the radio, he snapped it off in irritation.

Her parents must have stopped her.

He could imagine them waiting up for her, their older daughter and their favorite, to demand a further summit conference on the subject of Tony Lord; imagined her bare legs in the light of a living room lamp, her look of guilt and defiance as they asked her to sit down. Tony thought of his own parents, particularly his mother; without college or great expectations, Helen Lord peered suspiciously at a world she feared would snatch away her only child – this prize she had been given – as if to mock her for hoping above her status. Tony still struggled against her burdensome belief in his uniqueness; he both understood and disliked the Taylors' proprietary love for Alison. Once her parents started in on her, it might be impossible for her to leave.

It was one o'clock. But Tony could not desert her.

The house was close, perhaps a hundred yards. If his view were not blocked by the trees around him, he might see a light in Alison's window. With an instinct he could not explain, Tony knew that she would come to him. He did not want her to find her way alone.

Locking the car behind him, Tony stepped from beneath the trees. The night was even darker than before.

Slowly, he crossed the park toward the Taylors' house, listening for Alison.

Nothing.

Tony stopped. She could be somewhere near; on this night, it was possible that she might pass him unseen. The utter silence made the dark seem infinite.

Once more, he started toward the grove of oaks, guided only by his senses. At last, he heard the chill wind stir their branches and, a few steps further, saw them.

Outlined against the sky, the leafless trees were skeletal. Through them he made out the roofline of the Taylors' house; no lights were on. Then he heard the brittle snapping of a branch.

The footstep that must have caused this was not his.

‘Alison?'

There was no answer. Edgy, Tony walked toward the sound. His voice, low and muted, carried in the night.

‘Alison . . .'

A second branch snapped, closer.

Tony froze. He sensed that whoever made the sound had paused at his approach.

Taut, Tony heard a second sound, fainter, perhaps the wind. Perhaps he imagined that it seemed plaintive, feminine.

Another branch snapped, nearer yet.

Tony's skin crawled. ‘Who is it?' Tony cried out, and then heard someone running toward him.

Unable to see, Tony braced himself. The thumping footsteps headed for him. Then, quite suddenly, the footsteps veered away. Heart pounding in his chest, Tony listened as their sound vanished in the endless dark.

Alone, he remembered the other, softer sound.

Turning, he ran toward the grove.

A branch lashed his face. The sting of it stopped him only for an instant, and then he crossed onto the Taylors' land.

Abruptly, he stopped, looking blindly about him. The house was concrete now, its peculiar shape dark against the sky; to his right, a deep lapping sound came from the unseen lake below. Only when the back porch light came on, casting yellow on the grass, did he see the shadow lying before him.

He walked toward it, fear growing inside him, not wondering about the light. Curled on its side, the shadow was like a child sleeping.

Bending, Tony reached out to her. Felt the hair that hid her face, the cheek that was still warm.

His voice was hoarse. ‘
Alison
.'

Her skirt was pulled up. As though to stir her, Tony touched her bare leg.

It was damp. Something smelled like urine. A cry formed in his throat.

The back door creaked open. The beam of a flashlight crossed the grass.

‘Alison,' her father cried out.

Stunned, Tony cradled Alison's face. At first, he could not see her, and then the flashlight found them.

Alison's face was flushed, her mouth contorted. The eyes that had held such love for him were wide and empty, pinpointed with red starbursts.

Mind reeling, Tony crossed himself, tears of shock streaming down his face.

‘Oh my God . . .'

Tony jerked his hand back. It took him an instant to realize that the cry of anguish was not his. ‘Oh my God . . . ,' her father repeated.

Nauseous, Tony felt cold metal against his head, trembling with its own life. ‘
You animal – what have you done to her?
'

Turning, Tony faced a black revolver.

Behind it stood John Taylor, the white shock of hair faint silver in the light, his face sick with anger and incomprehension. Beyond him, the screen door framed the startled silhouette of Alison's mother. ‘Katherine,' her husband's thick voice cried. ‘Please, call for help. . . .'

Tony felt himself trembling, unable to comprehend this. Gun in hand, John Taylor knelt beside his daughter, felt for her pulse. As the father's eyes shut, Tony blurted, ‘It wasn't me. . . .'

John Taylor's eyes snapped open. Like an automaton, he rose from Alison's side and aimed the revolver at Tony. In his disbelief, Tony could not move.

‘Jack!'

Katherine Taylor ran from the house and knelt beside her daughter. She saw Alison's face, cried out. Then she threw herself across the slender frame, as if to protect it from hurt.

Staring at Tony across the two women, one still, one sobbing, John Taylor's eyes turned vacant. He raised the gun to fire; Tony covered his face.

‘
Mama
– what is it?'

John Taylor blinked. In a nightdress, Alison's eleven-year-old sister called from the back porch.

Stiffly, Alison's mother rose to her knees, her gray-streaked black hair disheveled, her face ivory. In parched tones, she said to her husband, ‘Don't hurt him, Jack. Wait for the police.'

John Taylor did not answer. Instead he turned, as if remembering his duties, and called out to his younger daughter with strained parental authority. ‘It's Alison, Lizzie. Please stay there.' Shivering, Tony knew that Alison's mother had saved his life.

A siren whined. Tony saw the flashing red lights of one police car, then a second, tires squealing to a stop in the Taylors' driveway. A young cop came running, followed by the stocky chief of police, calling out, ‘What's happened, John?'

Slowly, John Taylor turned. In a toneless voice, he said, ‘This boy killed Alison –'

‘
No
,' Tony cried out. ‘I found her. . . .'

Breathing heavily, the chief stopped, looking from John Taylor to the body at his feet. He bent to Alison, hand covering her mouth and nose, then murmured, ‘There's an ambulance coming.'

A hush surrounded him. Tony felt himself swallow. The chief gazed at him, his blue eyes astonished yet unspeakably sad. ‘I saw that game tonight . . .'

On the porch, Alison's sister began keening, thin cries of sympathetic fear. The chief looked up at Alison's father, then at his gun. ‘We have him now, John. You don't need to worry.'

Stiffly, Alison's mother stood leaning against her husband. With a jerk of the head, the chief summoned the young patrolman to the Taylors' side. ‘It's better,' the chief said to Alison's father, ‘if you step away a little.'

Mumbling his consolation, the young policeman guided them away, Katherine Taylor gazing back at Alison.

Two more police officers stood behind Tony. The chief's mouth set. ‘Get him out of here.' Standing, Tony found himself staring at Alison as if, dreamlike, she might rise with him.

Gently, the cops shepherded Tony across the lawn. It became the darkened landscape of a nightmare – the uniformed police, the dead girl he loved, her sister crying into her hands, hair black like Alison's.

They shoved him in the back seat of a squad car and started the motor. At the foot of the drive, Tony saw Alison's parents – her father staring fixedly at the car, her mother's head against his shoulder – through the blur of his own tears.

‘It wasn't me,' Tony repeated. ‘It wasn't me.'

After that, no one spoke.

Tony stared out the window at the quiet streets, half suburban, half small town – the white frame houses of the twenties, the red-brick bungalows and postage-stamp lawns of the fifties, the spired city hall with its iron clock face and, next to that, the incongruous severity of the tan brick police station, completed the previous year amidst much controversy. Lake City seemed at once familiar and strange, a place he had half forgotten. He ached for Alison to be with him.