On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs drooped like swags of funeral bunting.
He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished, sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.
Joining Clocker at the driver’s door of the Road King, Oslett considered making as stealthy an entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already aware of their arrival.
Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.
Almost.
They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going AWOL were so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that. Time might prove them wrong about other things.
That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.
And that was why he didn’t try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the .357 Magnum.
Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door. Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the circumstances, but he knocked anyway, waited several seconds, and knocked again, louder.
No one answered.
The door was unlocked. He opened it.
Enough yellow light from the parking-lot lamps filtered through the windshield to illuminate the cockpit of the motorhome. Oslett could see that no immediate threat loomed.
He stepped up onto the door sill, leaned in, and looked back through the Road King, which tunneled away into a swarming darkness as deep as the chambers of ancient catacombs.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” he said softly.
That spoken command should have resulted in an immediate ritual response, as in a litany: I am at peace, Father.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” Oslett repeated less hopefully.
Silence.
Although Oslett was neither Alfie’s father nor a man of the cloth, and therefore in no way could lay a legitimate claim to the honorific, his heart nevertheless would have been gladdened if he had heard the whispered and obedient reply: I am at peace, Father. Those five simple words, in an answering murmur, would have meant that all was essentially well, that Alfie’s deviation from his instructions was less a rebellion than a temporary confusion of purpose, and that the killing spree on which he had embarked was something that could be forgiven and put behind them.
Though he knew it was useless, Oslett tried a third time, speaking louder than before: “Be at peace, Alfie.”
When nothing in the darkness answered him, he switched on the flashlight and climbed into the Road King.
He couldn’t help but think what a waste and humiliation it would be if he got himself shot to death in a strange motorhome along an interstate in the Oklahoma vastness at the tender age of thirty-two. Such a bright young man of such singular promise (the mourners would say), with two degrees—one from Princeton, one from Harvard—and an enviable pedigree.
Moving out of the cockpit as Clocker entered behind him, Oslett swept the beam of the flashlight left and right. Shadows billowed and flapped like black capes, ebony wings, lost souls.
Only a few members of his family—fewer still among that circle of Manhattan artists, writers, and critics who were his friends—would know in what line of duty he had perished. The rest would find the details of his demise baffling, bizarre, possibly sordid, and they would gossip with the feverishness of birds tearing at carrion.
The flashlight revealed Formica-sheathed cabinets. A stove top. A stainless-steel sink.
The mystery surrounding his peculiar death would ensure that myths would grow like coral reefs, incorporating every color of scandal and vile supposition, but leaving his memory with precious little tint of respect. Respect was one of the few things that mattered to Drew Oslett. He had demanded respect since he was only a boy. It was his birthright, not merely a pleasing accoutrement of the family name but a tribute that must be paid to all of the family’s history and accomplishments embodied in him.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” he said nervously.
A hand, as white as marble and as solid-looking, had been waiting for the flashlight beam to find it. The alabaster fingers trailed on the carpet beside the padded booth of a dining nook. Higher up: the white-haired body of a man slumped over the bloodstained table.
4
Paige got up from the dining-room table, went to the nearest window, tilted the shutter slats to make wider gaps, and stared out at the gradually fading storm. She was looking into the backyard, where there were no lights. She could see nothing clearly except the tracks of rain on the other side of the glass, which seemed like gobs of spit, maybe because she wanted to spit at Lowbock, right in his face.
She had more hostility in her than did Marty, not just toward the detective but toward the world. All her adult life, she had been struggling to resolve the conflicts of childhood that were the source of her anger. She had made considerable progress. But in the face of provocation like this, she felt the resentments and bitterness of her childhood rising anew, and her directionless anger found a focus in Lowbock, making it difficult for her to keep her temper in check.
Conscious avoidance—facing the window, keeping the detective out of sight—was a proven technique for maintaining self-control. Counselor, counsel thyself. Reducing the level of interaction was supposed to reduce anger as well.
She hoped it worked better for her clients than it worked for her, because she was still seething.
At the table with the detective, Marty seemed determined to be reasonable and cooperative. Being Marty, he would cling as long as possible to the hope that Lowbock’s mysterious antagonism could be assuaged. Angry as he might be himself—and he was angrier than she had ever seen him—he still had tremendous faith in the power of good intentions and words, especially words, to restore and maintain harmony under any circumstances.
To Lowbock, Marty said, “It had to be him drank the beers.”
“Him?” Lowbock asked.
“The look-alike. He must’ve been in the house a couple of hours while I was out.”
“So the intruder drank the three Coronas?”
“I emptied the trash last night, Sunday night, so I know they aren’t empties left from the weekend.”
“This guy, he broke into your house because . . . how did he say it exactly?”
“He said he needed his life.”
“Needed his life?”
“Yes. He asked me why I’d stolen his life, who was I.”
“So he breaks in here,” Lowbock said, “agitated, talking crazy, well-armed . . . but while he’s waiting for you to come home, he decides to kick back and have three bottles of Corona.”
Without turning away from the window, Paige said, “My husband didn’t have those beers, Lieutenant. He’s not a drunk.”
Marty said, “I’d certainly be willing to take a Breathalyzer test, if you’d like. If I drank that many beers, one after another, my blood-alcohol level would show it.”