The panic blasted through Riley’s meager defenses and his mind went blank. He could barely have told this glassy-eyed son of a bitch his own name, his best friend’s... not his address or phone number, and not the name of a woman he’d never heard of before Monday.
The commando cocked the gun and Riley tried to remember. Tried so hard he actually grunted, but nothing came through the white haze of panic that practically blinded him and smeared all his thought... except for a stubborn picture of the mean little sign on Route 7. It said Connecticut, with no welcome to or state flower or bird or anything but some lines about gun laws.
“One more time, Mr. Riley,” the commando said. “Who is she?”
“Connecticut...” Riley gasped.
“Not good enough,” the commando said almost regretfully and pulled the trigger. The blast was muffled by the skirt and Barb’s leg, but it shook the room, and a mist of blood, pulverized flesh, and bone filled the air and settled almost lazily against the walls and cabinets, like the back puff from an oil burner. Riley and Barb screamed. Riley’s scream sank to a sick screech and stopped, but Barb went on until the sound sang in his teeth like biting on foil. Then it cut off and she slumped forward, held in the chair by the clothesline. Her head sagged forward, the smoke cleared around her, and Riley saw shards of bone, shredded flesh, and tendon where her lower leg had been.
The commando put the gun to her lolling head and looked out of the holes in the mask at Riley.
“Again, Mr. Riley. Who is she.’”
Horror smashed through the panic, the name came to him, and he threw back his head and raged, “Eve... Eve... Tilden Leigh...”
“Adam? Adam, come in,” Ellsworth Harris said.
Adam entered a foyer with bleached parquet floors and a modern light fixture that had glass starbursts at the end of curled brass rods. It was one of the ugliest objects he had ever seen.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner,” he said.
“No... well, yes.” Harris looked at the cloth napkin in his hand. “But don’t worry about that; please come in.” Adam followed him into a den paneled in pickled pine with a white rug and white furniture. Only the books and the TV the Harrises had left on when they went in to their dinner had any color.
Harris sat on a huge white couch with a glass-topped table on a white enamel frame in front of it.
“Sit, Adam. Can I get you a drink?”
“Thanks, El. I don’t have time.”
“Well... sure. What’s wrong?” Harris asked almost eagerly.
That was the reward for never complaining, never making trouble, Adam thought. His mother had taught him that; his mother had been no one’s fool. And now, when he had done something out of the ordinary and come to Ellsworth Harris’s house at dinner hour, Harris was all attention. He’d probably grant Adam whatever he asked, since he had never asked for anything before.
“It’s my father,” Adam said.
“Oh, dear... I hope...”
“I think it’s okay,” Adam said. “I talked to his doctor, and it seems he’s had some kind of coronary event, a small one. Still, they’ll have to do the thallium scan and maybe cardiac catheter. And then, maybe... well, you know, El, you’re a cardiologist.”
Or used to be, Adam thought: Now Ellsworth Harris was a glad-handing ass-kisser who wandered the hospital halls like a lost soul in a cave, when he wasn’t administrating, whatever that entailed.
“Anyway,” Adam went on, “the old guy’s scared shitless. So’s my brother.”
“Didn’t even know you had a brother, Adam.”
“No reason you should,” Adam said humbly. “But Mike’s scared, too, and I thought it would be easier on both of them, and my sister-in-law”—Claire the scrawny, Claire the sharp-eyed bitch—“if I were there to explain what’s happening as it happens.”
“Of course,” Harris said. “Of course.”
“Bill Sillbrooke and Chris Tufts’ll cover for me, and we’ve got the new guy...”
“Perkins,” Harris said.
“Perkins. So I thought...” He looked down like a kid in the principal’s office. Harris had kissed so much ass to get the new wing, the remodeled library, the MRI, he probably loved having his own nuzzled every now and then.
“Sure.” Harris said quietly. The tone was unexpected, and Adam looked up. Harris was staring off into the distance, his eyes misty. He cares, Adam thought, totally nonplussed. He thinks my dad’s sick, and he feels sorry for me. He pities me. How, El? My God... how do you do it? Tell me, El; just tell me how to look like you look this second, and I’ll be your slave for life. Then Harris said, “My own dad died last year, Adam. Remember?”
Adam nodded.
“I was shocked at how much I missed him,” Harris said. “Still miss him, and it still shocks me.” He looked into Adam’s eyes and smiled gently, with warmth, humanity, a little sorrow, feelings Adam would kill for. Had killed for.
“Take all the time you need, Adam.”
12
Eve folded the Egyptian cotton pajamas she’d bought Sam last Christmas. They were barely worn—he must have brought them only to please her—and she ducked her head to hide the tears in her eyes as she stuffed them into the suitcase.
“Where’ll you go?” she asked. Her voice sounded okay.
“My mother’s. No more tall timber, so you can find me if you need me. Only don’t need me too often, Babe. This is hard enough.”
She nodded and he said, “I’m sorry, Eve.”
It was about the eightieth time today he’d said it, and she felt a stab of annoyance. But annoyance was easier to handle than the hot heavy pain in her chest. She could probably get rid of that by throwing herself on the bed and sobbing, but that wasn’t her way, any more than it would be Frances’s. Besides, under the ache of sorrow and loss was relief. He’d been right this afternoon when he’d said, “It’s not going to work, Eve.”
And she’d felt a burst of relief to have it out in the open, and that he’d been the one to say it.
They had been in the drawing room; Mrs.
Knapp had just cleared away the tea tray, Larry was driving Frances to some committee, and they’d had the drawing room to themselves.
Eve had twisted her hands in her lap, and Sam had leaned forward to explain himself. She’d almost told him not to bother, because it didn’t feel any Tighter to her than it did to him. But she’d thought he needed to say his piece and she’d kept quiet.
“I was so glad to see you up there, Eve. Elated,” he’d said. “I thought I was being a yutz to stay away... that we’d make it somehow... that love would conquer all and other such horseshit. I was wild to see you again, even after just the few days since Saturday. I love you, Eve, I’ve always loved you.”
Get on with it, she’d thought. No use saying all this sad silly stuff now.
He’d gone on, “Then I rounded the curve in the drive, saw the house, and suddenly felt like a parolee going back to the slammer.”
“That bad?” She’d been startled by the harshness of the image.
“That bad. Not because of you... never because of you. But I saw this house and realized I was coming back to fifty years of never having a private moment. Of never being able to keep any of the silly little secrets everyone keeps. I was coming back to you kissing me good night and seeing me in a weak moment flirting with the cutie at the water cooler or getting drunk at a party and sticking my hand up a stray skirt for that feel of strange flesh every man gets a yen for. I could never lie that I had a headache or a touch of flu to get out of dinner at the club or bridge at Meg and Tim’s—you see what I’m saying, Eve? I’d try and fail... try and fail... and I’d wind up going nuts or eating rat poison, or blowing my head off.”