“And for God’s sake, don’t give the girls to anyone, cops or anyone, unless Paige is with them. Don’t even give them to me unless Paige is with me.”
Vic Delorio looked away from the police activity and blinked in surprise.
In memory, Marty could hear the look-alike’s angry voice, see the flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he raged: I want my life, my Paige . . . my Charlotte, my Emily . . .
“You understand, Vic?”
“Not to you?”
“Only if Paige is with me. Only then.”
“What—”
“I’ll explain later,” Marty interrupted. “Everybody’s waiting for me.” He turned and hurried along the front walk toward the street, looking back once to say, “Only Paige.”
... my Paige . . . my Charlotte, my Emily . . .
At home, in the kitchen, while recounting the assault to the officer who had caught the call and been first on the scene, Marty allowed a police technician to ink his fingers and roll them on a record sheet. They needed to be able to differentiate between his prints and those of the intruder. He wondered if he and The Other would prove to be as identical in that regard as they seemed in every other.
Paige also submitted to the process. It was the first time in their lives that either of them had been fingerprinted. Though Marty understood the need for it, the whole process seemed invasive.
After he got what he required, the technician moistened a paper towel with a glycerol cleanser and said that it would remove all the ink. It didn’t. No matter how hard he rubbed, dark stains remained in the whorls of his skin.
Before sitting down to make a more complete statement to the officer in charge, Marty went upstairs to change into dry clothes. He also took four Anacin.
He turned up the thermostat, and the house quickly overheated. But periodic shivers still plagued him—largely because of the unnerving presence of so many police officers.
They were everywhere in the house. Some were in uniforms, others were not, and all of them were strangers whose presence made Marty feel further violated.
He hadn’t anticipated how utterly a victim’s privacy was peeled away beginning the moment he reported a serious crime. Policemen and technicians were in his office to photograph the room where the violent confrontation had begun, dig a couple of bullets out of the wall, dust for fingerprints, and take blood samples from the carpet. They were also photographing the upstairs hall, stairs, and foyer. In their search for evidence that the intruder might have left behind, they assumed they had an invitation to poke into any room or closet.
Of course they were in his house to help him, and Marty was grateful for their efforts. Yet it was embarrassing to think that strangers might be noting the admittedly obsessive way he organized the clothes in his closet according to color—he and Emily both—the fact that he collected pennies and nickels in a half-gallon jar as might a boy saving for his first bicycle, and other unimportant yet highly personal details of his life.
And he was more unsettled by the plainclothes detective in charge than by the rest of them combined. The guy’s name was Cyrus Lowbock, and he elicited a complex response that went beyond mere embarrassment.
The detective could have made a good living as a male model posing for magazine advertisements for Rolls-Royce, tuxedoes, caviar, and stock-brokerage services. He was about fifty, trim, with salt-and-pepper hair, a tan even in November, an aquiline nose, fine cheekbones, and extraordinary gray eyes. In black loafers, gray cords, dark-blue cable-knit sweater, and white shirt—he had taken off a windbreaker—Lowbock managed to appear both distinguished and athletic, although the sports one would associate with him were not football and baseball but tennis, sailing, powerboat racing, and other pursuits of the upper classes. He looked less like any popular image of a cop than like a man who had been born to wealth and knew how to manage and preserve it.
Lowbock sat across the dining-room table from Marty, listening intently to his account of the assault, asking questions largely to clarify the details, and writing in a spiral-bound notebook with an expensive black-and-gold Montblanc pen. Paige sat beside Marty, offering emotional support. They were the only three people in the room, although uniformed officers interrupted periodically to confer with Lowbock, and twice the detective excused himself to examine evidence that had been deemed relevant to the case.
Sipping Pepsi from a ceramic mug, soothing his throat while recounting the life-and-death struggle with the intruder, Marty also experienced a resurgence of the inexplicable guilt that had first troubled him when he’d lain on the wet street with his hands cuffed. The feeling was no less irrational than before, considering that the biggest crime of which he could justifiably be accused was routine contempt for the speed limits on certain roads. But this time he understood that part of his uneasiness resulted from the perception that Lieutenant Cyrus Lowbock regarded him with quiet suspicion.
Lowbock was polite, but he did not say much. His silences were vaguely accusatory. When he wasn’t taking notes, his zinc-gray eyes focused unwaveringly, challengingly, on Marty.
Why the detective should suspect him of being less than entirely truthful was not clear. However, Marty supposed that after years of police work, dealing with the worst elements of society day in and day out, the understandable tendency was toward cynicism. Regardless of what the Constitution of the United States promised, a long-time cop probably felt justified in the conviction that all men—and women—were guilty until proven innocent.
Marty finished his story and took another long sip of cola. Cold fluids had done all they could for his sore throat; the greater discomfort was now in the tissues of his neck, where throttling hands had left the skin reddened and where extensive bruising would surely appear by morning. Though the four Anacin were beginning to kick in, a pain akin to whiplash made him wince when he turned his head more than a few degrees in either direction, so he adopted a stiff-necked posture and movement.
For what seemed an excessive length of time, Lowbock paged through his notes, reviewing them in silence, quietly tapping the Montblanc pen against the pages.
The splash and tap of rain still enlivened the night, though the storm had abated somewhat.
Floorboards upstairs creaked now and then with the weight of the policemen still at their assigned tasks.
Under the table, Paige’s right hand sought Marty’s left, and he gave it a squeeze as if to say that everything was all right now.
But everything wasn’t all right. Nothing had been explained or resolved. As far as he knew, their trouble was just beginning.
... my Paige . . . my Charlotte, my Emily . . .
At last Lowbock looked at Marty. In a flat tone of voice that was damning precisely because of its complete lack of interpretable inflection, the detective said, “Quite a story.”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Marty stifled the urge to assure Lowbock that he had not exaggerated the degree of resemblance between himself and the look-alike or any other aspect of his account. He had told the truth. He was not required to apologize for the fact that the truth, in this instance, was as astounding as any fantasy.