Bunner did: flesh, bone, tendons smashed to mush by a slug from that enormous gun. More urine leaked into his drawers; he couldn’t stop it. The relief of letting go would be wonderfuclass="underline" cry, piss your pants, then faint, he thought. Draw the curtain on this little horror show—but not yet, not until he played that tape and watched Fuller’s face when he realized that he’d lost.
“Or I could do your jaw,” Adam said calmly, “or genitals. The point is you’ll tell me sooner or later. You know it, I know it. So why not just do it, save yourself the agony and your family the horror of knowing how you suffered?
“Who is she, Bunny?”
Bunner reached for the recorder and Adam cocked the gun. Bunner tried to tell him it was his turn to listen, but he still couldn’t talk. He shook his head and Adam seemed to get the message; at least he didn’t pull the trigger, and Bunner pushed rewind with a finger so shaky it almost didn’t work. The tape hissed softly across the heads until it reached the point he thought he wanted. He pushed stop, then play, and her low, woolly, lovely voice came through the little speaker.
“But not being crazy doesn’t mean I saw a woman die from miles away either, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Bunner’s taped voice said.
Her again: “Then why don’t we stop wasting time. You don’t know my name, the lieutenant’s given me his word that he’ll never tell you.”
7
“You again!”
The same woman was still on the service, must have been on all night, and her voice was ragged. “You upset me so much last night I called there this morning and woke Mrs. Bunner up.”
“Is Dr. Bunner... ?” Eve asked.
“Mrs. Bunner was very nice about it; she told me they had a marvelous time and Dr. Bunner is just fine, thank you very much. Nothing ‘terrible’ happened to him or anyone else. Now I’ll thank you not to call this number again, except at regular office hours,” and she hung up, leaving Eve listening to dead air.
Eve put the phone down and stared stupidly at it.
He was fine, a vision had been wrong at last; the killer hadn’t sat down with Bunner, the dread that had chased her down the highway, kept her awake, was still with her, was an... artifact... or the result of the emotional swings of pregnancy.
If she was pregnant.
She left her mother’s suite, where she’d spent the night, and went down the gallery to the stairs. On the way, she passed the suite that had been her’s and Sam’s and would be again day after to- morrow. The door was open, the vacuum was going, the cushions were off the couch, and Laura was vacuuming the drapes. The air smelled of furniture polish, and the old TV and stand were pushed to the side. Eve had to call Barker’s Electronics in Torrington and browbeat them into delivering a new one tomorrow.
But first, she called Meg from the phone in the drawing room. Frances stuck her head in while it was ringing.
“Mrs. Knapp’s making Eggs Benedict.”
Eggs Benedict—poached eggs with quivering yolks covered in yellow sauce—Eve’s gorge rose. George, the Carpenters’ butler, answered the phone and she asked for Meg, then covered the mouthpiece.
“I don’t think so, Auntie. Just some cereal, tell her. Corn flakes?”
“You’ve got to eat more—”
Meg came on the line.
“Meg, can you come over? I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Why not tell me now?”
Frances was still in the room; Tim or Tim Junior and the nanny or all of them including Meg’s mother were probably in the room with Meg.
Eve said, “Better in person.”
“Okay. Is one okay?”
Meg got there at ten of. Frances was closeted with Mrs. Knapp planning Sam’s coming-home dinner on Tuesday. Greta would be there, as would Meg and Tim; Larry might even condescend to eat with them.
Eve had called the store in Torrington and told them she’d buy the most expensive 27-inch TV they had if they’d deliver it tomorrow. The salesman said, “Twelve hundred expensive enough for you, lady?”
“Twelve hundred’s fine.”
“I’ll have it there by three tomorrow.”
Now she and Meg sat across from each other in the drawing room. Meg had a glass of sherry; Eve was drinking club soda, afraid anything else would make her sick. She still couldn’t shake that dread, had managed to choke down only a couple of spoonfuls of cereal. Maybe she was coming down with something.
She told Meg about the vision in the clearing when she’d finally “seen” Tim at a health club somewhere between Hartford and Bridgeton. Not in a cheap motel screwing the “other woman” who didn’t seem to exist.
Meg tried to appear unaffected, but she paled, then blushed. Her hand shook as she raised the glass, and sherry spilled on her skirt and the couch.
“Shit!” She slammed the glass on the table, spilling more sherry and cried. “Fuck!” They starred to laugh a little wildly.
“Didn’t have to be a cheap motel,” Meg gasped. “Tim’s got some money...” and they laughed harder. But both sensed an edge of hysteria and got themselves under control. Eve swigged the soda, the bubbles went up her nose, and she choked. Meg came over and clapped her on the back... spilling more sherry. Then she topped off her glass from the decanter and went back to her place.
There were still tears of laughter in her eves, but her expression was serious. “I still don’t get it.” she said. “Why would Tim go to some mingy little place, God knows where, when we’ve got a nice club right here with an indoor pool and a gym? And why... oh. Evie, why couldn’t you tell me this on Friday and save me a stupendously rotten weekend?”
“I tried, I did. Meg. But I just couldn’t...”
It was saving itself to show her the woman slashed open in the woods, and that terrified little boy on the swing who’d grown up to kill five women and shoot Bunner in the face...
Shoot Banner in the face.
“I hope you’re not just saying it to make me feel better.” Meg said. Then her voice stopped, although her mouth kept moving. Behind her, in utter silence that almost pounded it was so absolute, the heavy drapes over the half-open windows billowed in a spring draft... then they disappeared and Eve was in Bunner’s office.
He was behind his desk, the man with the light brown hair was in front or it. He had on a beige poplin jacket and something in his hand at which Bunner stared fixedly. Eve couldn’t see the man’s race or what he was holding, but she knew it was a gun.
Bunner’s eves were round and blind as wet stones and his race was the color of sour milk. His eves moved away from the gun to his hand resting on the recorder he’d made a tape of her with on Saturday. But they moved with sickening languor as if they couldn’t obey commands from his brain anymore.
He seemed to try to move the hand, but couldn’t, then his eves made their sluggish way back to the gun. and the other man said. “Sorry. Bunny.”
The back of the jacket pulled as he raised his hand. Bunner’s eyes crossed and rolled back and he seemed to lose consciousness. His body sagged, started to fall forward, and the gun went off. For a second, nothing happened; Bunner was still there, with his body beginning its fainting slump... then his face disintegrated, and a blob of blood, pulverized flesh, and other matter smacked the windowpane. Smoke hid him for an instant, then his body toppled through it and she saw a mass of red pulp where his face had been.
She screamed and Meg screamed back, “Eve... Evie... my God...”
The office snapped out and she was back in the drawing room. The drapes billowed, she smelled spilt sherry instead of cordite and was looking into her friend’s round, frightened eyes. And Bunner was dead... or about to be in the next second... hour? Day? She didn’t know.