But Adam didn’t go inside, he just backed into the shadow cast by the wall so Bunner couldn’t see anything but the smear of gray his shirt made and the shine on his patent-leather dress shoes.
“Scars...” Adam said, in that stone-dropping-down-a-well voice.
“Scars,” Bunner repeated, suddenly drunk-annoyed. “We got an echo out here? I said scars. She saw the scars Ken got when he tried to save his mother from burning to death. At which he failed, by the way. Or no—he didn’t fail, I mustn’t think like that. There was never any chance of saving her.
“I should’ve gotten it out of him, should have seen those scars myself, but I didn’t—she did. And that’s not all the little lady with something extra saw, Sport. She says she saw the man who killed the woman in the woods last night.”
Not a sound from Adam.
Bunner grinned, but the grin felt sly and mean; he wiped it off his face but it came right back as he said, “From the back only, of course. Know why she only saw that murderous prick’s back, Adam, old boy?”
“Why?” Adam’s voice was even bleaker than before; if a glacier could talk it would sound like that, Bunner thought. But he was past caring how Adam or anyone sounded—he was into it, telling it, getting it out of his system. “Because if she saw him from the front, she’d have to describe him, and she can’t because she didn’t ‘see’ him or anything else.”
“Except Ken’s scars,” Adam said in that glacial voice.
“Except Ken’s scars,” Bunner intoned.
“And if she saw that...” Adam waited, but Bunner didn’t respond. “What else did she see, Bunny?”
And Bunner told him; he described the office visit with Latovsky and her without names, of course. “She claimed to see the killer’s back; she said he was wearing a blue blazer, lighter-colored slacks.”
“Like half the men in America on Friday night.”
“Right,” Bunner said, eagerly. If he could discount that part of it, maybe he could find some rational explanation for her knowing about Ken’s scars. Then he could consign her and her “gift” to oblivion and the universe could go back on its normal track where everyone was bound by the same limits of time and space. He wouldn’t have to change his ideas of the possible. No one liked to do that, except malcontents whose lives were so dull and intellects so lazy they got their notions of “possible” from supermarket tabloids: Baby with three heads. Eighty-year-old woman bears twins.
“She also said he wore tasseled loafers.”
“Tasseled loafers!” Adam sounded a little riled by that and Bunner understood. The blazer and slacks anyone could figure, but tasseled loafers...
Bunner ignored that and went on to her holding out her hand to Bunner. “Like being offered a nest of maggots,” he said; then told of taking the hand anyway, of going to Ken’s and seeing the scars for himself, and finally of the trip to the quarry because he couldn’t stand being inside four walls with her, “because I hated and feared her,” he mumbled.
“Was she fearsome?”
Bunner went on, without answering, “And just to show you what total bullshit I had to listen to this morning, she also told me not to come here tonight.”
“Oh...”
“Didn’t tell me why of course, just said don’t go, in that creepy voice. And look at what a wonderful time I’d’ve missed if I’d listened to her,” he said bitterly.
Adam made a funny sound that could have been a giggle and asked, “Then?”
“Then... nothing. She drove away in a little red car I swear cost less than that dumb pin she was wearing and disappeared. The End.” Bunner threw out his arms dramatically, which was a mistake because he was still drunk and the world started to swirl around him. He dropped his arms, gripped the edge of the freezing bench, and everything settled down. Then Adam said quietly, his voice coming out of the shadow next to the wall, “But she didn’t see his face.”
It was an odd detail for Adam to fix on, that the woman had not seen the killer’s face, and Bunner tried to look at the other man, but the shadow hid him.
“You haven’t been listening,” Bunner said testily. “She didn’t see anything.”
“Except the scars on Ken’s hands,” Adam said.
He sounded convinced! He was a colleague, had an M.D. from Dartmouth, was board certified in internal medicine. That didn’t make him a scientist, but surely the next thing to it. Surely he couldn’t believe this horseshit.
Then Adam asked the question one physician should never ask another, but he asked it anyway.
“Who is she, Bunny?”
He tried to make it sound supercasual, but Bunner knew better, and he again gripped the edge of the stone bench. The puddles were drying, white at the edges. There’d be hard frost by morning, but that was fine because it’d keep the flies at bay another day. What a godforsaken place this was—they were probably getting their bathing suits out of storage in the Carolinas.
Who is she? was the dead wrong question for one physician to ask another and Adam knew it, but he’d asked anyway.
Bunner tried to make a joke of it. “Why, Sport? Want to know if you’re going to meet a tall dark stranger?”
“Could she tell me?”
Bunner didn’t answer.
“C’mon, Bunny. Could she? Did you... do you believe her?”
No answer.
“Do you?” Adam demanded with more urgency than Bunner had ever heard in his voice, and the truth just fell out of Bunner’s mouth, like the hoptoad in the fairy tale fell out of the mouth of the fair maiden, he thought, and said, “Yes.”
The message light was blinking when Latovsky got home and he played the tape.
“Lieutenant... Dave... it’s Eve Klein. I tried to get hold of Bunner and couldn’t. Dave, you’ve got to stop him. He mustn’t go to that party.”
A couple of clicks, then her voice again with the same message.
He turned off the machine and called the 203 number she’d given him. A gruff-sounding man answered on the third ring.
“Tilden House.”
“Is there a Mrs. Klein there? Eve Klein?”
“Mrs. Klein’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?”
Very professional-sounding, Latovsky thought. Like the secretary of a corporate executive officer. He said, “Tell her Lieutenant Latovsky called.”
“Lieutenant... ?”
“Latovsky. New York State Police. Please tell Mrs. Klein I tried to stop him, but it was no go.”
“That’s a very cryptic message, Lieutenant.”
“She’ll know what it means.” Latovsky hung up before the man could ask questions. He started to strip off his wet coat, then thought about it. He was cold, hungry, exhausted, and starting to tremble. He thought about his warm bed with longing, but he left his coat on and went back out into the night.
The wind had picked up; the temperature was dropping by the minute. The lakes up north would be skinned with ice by morning. He got into the Olds and fifteen minutes later pulled back into the parking lot of the Glenvale Club.
He wasn’t going to confront the poor maitre d’ again; he didn’t know what to do except stand watch like the fairy godmother making sure her charge got home from the ball in one piece.
He waited, cycling the heater on and off so he didn’t fall asleep and freeze to death. At midnight, people started leaving and he came out of his semistupor. At twelve thirty, Bunner lurched through the front door, supported by Mary.
His old buddy had gotten shit-faced.
They made it to the Caddy. Mary guided him into the passenger seat, and Latovsky saw Bunner’s head sink against the side window. He actually heard a faint thunk, even from here.