Julie had been there. With him. Standing behind him. In the bedroom.
She had never been in his house before.
She and Cora had never met.
But now she stood in the bedroom, behind him, Cora snoring quietly in bed a few feet away, and Julie whispered, “Go on. Do it. Now. Here. Take it.”
And he had taken the shotgun from her.
It was heavy. He had never noticed it as being so heavy before. He had gone hunting with it plenty of times. It never seemed heavy to him then.
He raised the shotgun.
He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the wetness dangling between his lids.
He opened his eyes and turned to look at Julie, who was nodding, and back to Cora, who was sleeping, and their images blurred together; they were one person, one beautiful woman he had loved and let dominate him. And he squeezed the trigger.
He squeezed the trigger and squeezed shut his eyes and dropped the gun to the floor and ran blindly out of the room and dropped to his knees in the hallway, sobbing, wanting to scream but the scream getting caught in his chest, as if a webbing in his chest had caught the scream and was holding it there, letting only a rasping, wheezing cough-sound come out of him. And he got to the bathroom in the far part of the house, the one off his study, and hung his head over the stool, but he didn’t vomit. He hadn’t eaten anything for two days; there was nothing there. He just held onto the side of the stool and cried and cried and cried and Julie was patting his shoulder, saying, “There, there.”
Later, moments, minutes — a lifetime later — he looked up at Julie. He was still clinging to the cold porcelain of the stool. His ears rang from the sound of an explosion he hadn’t really heard. He said, “I’m sorry, baby... I’m... I’m sorry... sorry...”
“She never felt a thing,” Julie said.
“I... don’t know if I can go any... further with this.”
She kneeled beside him. She kissed his cheek. She dried his eyes and cheeks with Kleenex.
“We’re going to have to get going, honey,” she said. “You’re going to have to pull yourself together. Jon and Logan’ll be here soon.”
“How... how can I wait in the house here with... her?”
“Wait outside. Go outside and wait for them. Cold air do you good.”
“I... I hate this.”
“The worst is over.”
“Is... it? What about the others?”
“My responsibility. Just lead them to me.”
“Like a... like a... Judas sheep.”
“They’re nothing but thieves, George. Killers and thieves.”
“That... that Jon is just a kid. A boy.”
“The two of them are criminals, George. They’d do the same to us, if they had to.”
“They... they haven’t. They could have, and they haven’t.”
“Why should they, honey? They’re in this for the money.”
“We forced them.”
“No. They’re in this for the money. That’s the truth. Now get hold of yourself. You all right?”
“All... right. I’m all right.”
“Can you compose yourself? At the bank?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“All right. I’ll go get your coat. Stay put.”
She left the bathroom.
He got to his feet.
And walked through the study.
Walked down the hall.
Looked into the bedroom.
At the blue wallpaper. The open-beam wood ceiling. The nightstand with their wedding picture on top. The nightstand drawer was pulled out, to reveal the .32 amidst the jewelry boxes. Julie had thought to open the drawer. The nightmare didn’t touch her, did it? She was. cool, efficient, even in crisis. The girl had a good head on her shoulders.
Which was more than could be said for Cora.
He shuddered.
And looked away.
Then he looked back, and emotion had drained out of him somehow.
Cora wasn’t there. Not really. There was this headless thing in the queen-size bed, a dressmaker’s dummy in a red-spattered cream-color nightgown. And some strange, surrealistic stain of colors — red again was dominant — splashed on the blue-papered wall behind the bed. An abstract painting. Not Cora.
“Don’t,” Julie said.
She was standing behind him again, as she had earlier. She had the shotgun again. She’d be taking it with her. It was part of the plan. To kill Cora and, later, Nolan and Jon, with the same shotgun.
“Don’t look at her,” Julie said.
“Look at who?” he said.
“George. Get out of this room, George.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” His voice sounded remote to him, as though he was speaking down a well and his voice was mingling with its echo. “That’s not her.”
“Come on. Get into your coat and wait outside. They’ll be here soon.”
“Wait with me.”
“George! Snap out of it!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the hall. “Snap out of it. I’ll be here. Inside. But those two can’t see me, George. I’m not supposed to be here! George? We’ve gone over this a thousand times, George. Goddammit!”
“I’ll wait outside.”
She sighed. And smiled. A tight-lipped little smile. “I’ll help you with your coat. Here. Now. They should be along in fifteen minutes or so. Stand out there and relax.”
Julie would wait till Nolan and Jon had picked Rigley up in the van, and then she would leave, out the back way, and walk on foot to where she had left her car.
Rigley went outside and stood in the chill air. The cold felt good. He wished it were even colder. He wished it would freeze him.
The gun was empty. Some more rinse was needed. He deposited two more quarters, then squeezed the trigger on the water rifle. Red gurgled down the drain, leaving whiteness behind.
Nolan and Jon were getting out of the back of the van. Both wore the hunting jackets. Nolan wore tan trousers and a dark blue woolen turtleneck sweater. Jon wore the T-shirt with the cartoon figure of a pinheaded man on it, and blue jeans. Nolan had a green garbage bag; inside the bag were the Santa Claus suits.
“You about done?” Nolan asked Rigley. Nolan was tying a knot in the neck of the big plastic bag.
“Yes,” Rigley said.
The van was white now. It had been painted with a water-base paint, and stencils had been placed on the sides while it was being painted so that the “TOYS FOR TIKES” lettering had been formed from the natural white beneath.
Nolan opened the garage-type door and peeked out into the alley.
“All clear,” he said.
He put the green garbage bag with the costumes in it next to some similar bags set out for trash pickup by the filling station management.
Rigley got back in the back of the van. Nolan shut the doors on him. Darkness swallowed him up again.
Then they were moving. Out of the car wash, out of town. To Rigley’s cottage. Where Julie and the shotgun waited
16
She unfolded the plastic sheet. It had come off a roll and had been folded up like a huge tablecloth. She’d bought it months ago, at a paint store, with today’s purpose in mind. She began spreading the sheet across the floor, and when she was done, it covered nearly half the room — from the doorway, past the couch, on to the edge of the fireplace. She smoothed it, as though making a bed. Then she moved to the other side of the room and sat at the picnic-style table over near the bar. The windows in the cottage were shuttered, and none of the lights were turned on; there was nothing to catch the plastic surface and reflect. They wouldn’t notice the sheet of plastic when they came in, not until they’d stepped on it, heard it crinkle underfoot, and they wouldn’t begin to have time to realize that the plastic was there to catch the bloody mess they’d make, dying. Because they’d be dead already. The moment they stepped in the door.