Thursday
The Child
Malone spent the first two hours trying to get Ellen to go to bed. She just sat in the rocker rocking. He kept at it like a gung ho D.I. because he could think of nothing else. Finally Ellen said, “How can I sleep when my baby is in the hands of those murderers?” and he gave up.
At one thirty Malone said, “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll make some.”
“No, I’ll do it. You sit there.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Watch the bag.”
“What?”
“The bag. With the money.”
She stared at it with loathing. It was on the coffee table before the sofa. “How much is in it?”
“I don’t know. A week’s payroll for Aztec.”
“Count it,” Ellen said. “I want to find out how much my child’s life is worth.”
“Ellen.”
“It’s like an insurance policy, isn’t it?” Ellen said. “And I’ve been after you for years to take one out for Bibby.” She laughed. “For her college education.”
“Ellen, for God’s sake.”
“I know, we can’t afford it. Can we afford it now? Oh, never mind. Go drink your coffee.”
“I only thought-”
“All right. I’ll have some, too.”
He hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. When he came back she was counting the money.
“Over twenty-four thousand dollars.”
He looked at it.
“It’s a lot of money,” Malone said inanely.
Ellen grinned. “She’s a lot of little girl.”
He crammed the money back into the bag with trembling hands.
Neither took more than a few sips.
She kept rocking.
At three a.m. she suddenly said, “Is this all you’re going to do, Loney? Sit here?”
“What else can I do? There’s nothing I can do tonight.”
“What kind of a man are you? I thought I knew you.” Her eyes summed him up like an obituary.
“That little one, Furia,” Malone explained to the floor. “He’s gun-happy. I want them to get to wherever they’re holing up without any trouble. It’s the best protection Bibby can have. They’ll have no excuse… Look, why don’t we talk in the morning? You’re dead for sleep.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“I’ll go to bed in a while. Let me give you a pill.”
“No.”
“What good are you going to do Bibby sitting up all night? You’ll need your strength.”
“And you won’t?”
“I’ll go, too, I tell you. Come on, how about it?”
At a quarter of four she allowed him to give her one of the sleeping pills left over from Dr. Levitt’s prescription, when she had had the last miscarriage. She undressed stiffly. She moved like Barbara’s walking doll. He tucked her into bed and stooped to kiss her.
She turned her face away.
He dragged back down to the parlor.
He carried the coffee things into the kitchen, washed and dried them, put them away.
Then he went back upstairs.
The robe and slippers were on the gilt chair. Little pajamas on the floor, the ones with the daisies she was ape over. He picked them up and folded them and hung them with care over the foot of her canopy bed. She loved her bed, with its lace-trimmed tester. It was a cheap one, everything they owned was cheap except a few of Ellen’s mother’s things, but Bibby was crazy about it. Her homework was on the work-table, in her hentrack handwriting. She always gets U-for-Unsatisfactory in Neatness. He picked up her plaid school-bag and looked in. It was full of drawing papers, crayons of fun trees, happy cows, sunny houses, huge suns. E-for-Excel-lent in Art. Her drawings laughed, her teacher said.
Those killer skunks.
The sheet and blanket were flung back from when Ellen had awakened her. The pillow still showed the dent of her head.
He felt the bed, trying to feel his child.
But it was cold.
He eased the door to Barbara’s room shut and looked in on his wife. Ellen was asleep. One arm was drawn across her face to shut the world out. She was making mewing sounds. Poor Ellen. Who else has she got to blame? She’s got to get back at somebody.
He went downstairs again. He opened the black bag and counted out the money on the coffee table. $24,358.25. It was like counting out Bibby. Is this all my kid is worth? Figure a life expectancy of seventy years. That makes her worth less than $350 a year.
Not enough. I’ll kill them.
He fell asleep on the sofa, the black bag hugged to his belly.
He was driving the Pontiac along the river road through pearly fog at a hundred miles an hour leaving a sand wake like a launch and John Secco was sobbing, “Ease up, Wes, for God’s sake take it slower, you’ll kill us both, that’s an order,” but he kept his foot on the accelerator and he was grinning because the black Chrysler was right there up ahead. He could see its red lights through the fog and Bibby’s face in the rear window frightened to death and the gold woman blowing cigaret smoke in her little white face. He stepped harder trying to push the pedal through the floor but no matter how hard he pushed the Chrysler kept the same distance ahead. Then it was rising in the air in an arc like a flying fish heading for the Tonekeneke’s black water and he tried to pull it back with both hands to keep it from falling into the river but he had no strength, it slipped through his fingers and the splash hit him like a stone wall and he found his voice Bibby Bibby BIBBY…
He opened his eyes.
Ellen was kneeling by the sofa with her arms around him.
“Loney, wake up. You’re having a dream.”
He sat up. His belly felt sore. It was the bag digging into him.
“Oh, Loney, I’m sorry.”
“About what?” He was shaking.
“The way I acted last night.” Ellen’s arms tightened. “As if it’s your fault. I’m a bitch.”
“No, you’re not.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Forgive me?”
“What’s to forgive?” He swung his legs to the floor and groaned. “I swear I’m tireder now than I was last night. No calls?”
“No, darling. She’ll be all right. I know she will.”
“Of course she will.”
“Why didn’t you get undressed and into bed? No wonder you’re exhausted. This sofa is the original torture rack.”
“I must have dropped off. I could use a couple gallons coffee, Mrs. Malone.”
“It’s all ready for you. You just sit here. I’ll get it.”
“No, I’ll come into the kitchen. What time is it?”
“Seven thirty.”
“I have to make a call.”
She was instantly alarmed. “To where?”
“To the station.”
“Loney, you promised-”
“Don’t worry, Ellen.”
They went into the kitchen. Ellen spooned out the coffee, watching him. He went to the wall phone and dialed.
“Wes Malone,” Malone said. “Who’s this?”
“Trooper Miller. Oh. Wes.” The young Resident Trooper sounded groggy. “What can I do for you?”
“Chief Secco there?”
“He’s gone home for some shuteye. Don’t ask me why, but I volunteered to hold down the fort till the day man comes in. Where the hell is he? I haven’t slept since night before last.”
“What’s doing? I mean about those killers.”
“Not a thing. Looks like they slipped through before we set up the blocks. Anything I can do for you?”
“No. I was just wondering.”
“Forget it. Somebody ‘11 pick ‘em up somewhere. Chief says you’re on a couple days’ leave, Wes. Make love to your wife or something. No rest, but it’s recreation.”