"Don't you ever miss the beat of a big city?"
"I thought I might, but I'm so busy here I don't have time to think about it. What about you?"
"I guess I'd have to say the same. But I've only been here a short time. I can imagine missing certain options, though."
"Like what?"
"Oh, theater, concerts-even movies. It's pretty bleak when something like Conan the Barbarian is your only choice."
She laughed and he felt himself respond, smiling at her.
He said, "Did you know that the guy who wrote the book Conan the Barbarian lived with his mother until he died?"
"You know," she said, "this will probably shock you, but I didn't know that."
Now he laughed.
Annie said, "I won't deny that the North Fork is often a cultural desert, but we try to rectify that as much as possible. We have music programs, poetry readings, even some theater."
"I thought the biggest form of entertainment around here was yard sales."
"Sometimes it feels like that. Thank God for the library. Have you tried it?"
Colin shook his head. He'd assumed the Seaville library stacks were loaded with romances and how-to junk.
"Last year we got a new, smart librarian and the whole place has changed. Betty'll get you any book you want." Annie cocked her head to one side. "Assuming you read, of course."
"I've been known to crack a book now and then."
They were smiling at each other again, eyes meeting. Colin felt it in his toes. And then they were exchanging names of authors they liked. He experienced a kind of excitement he hadn't felt for a long time-that magic when you discover someone you like has the same taste as you. They had just started on movies when Annie realized the time.
"I'm sorry, Colin, I have to go. I'm late already."
They both rose.
He knew it was none of his business, but he asked anyway. "Where are you going."
She was clearly surprised by his question. "Sunday dinner with parishioners."
"Have it with me," he said recklessly, "I'm a parishioner."
"Are you?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
"I'm glad."
They looked at each other for several moments before she picked up their empty glasses.
In the kitchen Colin asked, "Do you always have Sunday dinner with a parishioner?"
"Almost always."
They were standing very close and he wanted to kiss her. "How about Saturday night dinners?" he said instead.
"That depends"
"On what?"
"The kindness of strangers."
"I'm a stranger."
"I thought you were a parishioner."
"A strange parishioner."
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, I'm strange or yes, you'll have dinner Saturday night?"
"Both."
"Good."
They left the house together, and he walked her to her car.
Bending down, he spoke to her through the open window. "It's going to be a long week."
She smiled. The engine turned over and she put the car in gear.
Colin watched as the Escort pulled out onto the main street and turned left toward Bay View. He stood watching until it was out of sight.
In his own car he sat for awhile and smoked a cigarette. He felt odd, as if he'd done something terrible. Was this what Dr. Safier tried to warn him about? The feeling of betraying Nancy? He had no doubt that what he was experiencing was guilt. Why should he feel guilt just from making a date with a woman? But that was rational. Feelings weren't rational. So what was he feeling? Guilt and anxiety. And lust. Don't forget good old lust.
He flipped his cigarette out the window, started the car, and sat waiting to pull out while two cars went by. The second was Burton Kelly's. Kelly looked straight ahead as he drove past. Colin couldn't help wondering what the man was doing around there again; then decided he was making something out of nothing. After all, it was the only road into town. Still, something about it bothered him. Maybe the intense way Kelly had been driving, hands gripping the top of the wheel, eyes glued to the road. He waited until four more cars went by. Each driver looked his way, checking for a car that might pull out. It was a reflex, natural and predictable. Only Burton Kelly had kept his eyes straight ahead. Colin surmised that Kelly didn't wish to be seen driving by the church again, driving by Annie's.
As he turned into the road he thought that unless Burton Kelly was guilty about something, like spying on his minister, he would most certainly have looked at Colin's car, even waved. A prickle of fear danced across the back of Colin's neck. And then he told himself to forget it and get on with his day. He turned on the radio to WNEW. Peggy Lee was singing "Day by Day" and he found himself joining her and thinking of Annie.
LOOKING BACK-75 YEARS AGO
Miss Olive Sheraton, of Seaville, had a strange mishap one night last week. She dreamed she was bathing and dived through a window screen to the ground 12 feet below, striking on her face. After an examination it was found that she had broken her nose and badly bruised her face.
SIXTEEN
On Tuesday morning Special Agent William Schufeldt sat behind the only wooden desk in the squad room, facing Chief Hallock. Schufeldt was a beefy man, at first giving the appearance of someone who still had to lose his baby fat. But there was no fat on him. Schufeldt was like a well-trimmed roast. His eyes were small and blue, and when he leveled his gaze they were hard, like shooting marbles.
Hallock looked into those eyes and felt a wintry chill even though the thermometer was registering a comfortable seventy. He didn't like Schufeldt, and not just because he'd come in on the case, acting like he ran the place, treating Hallock like an inferior, generally hot-dogging all over; he didn't like him because the guy wasn't likable. There was something missing, Hallock thought. An important ingredient, maybe soul. Whatever it was, Hallock couldn't warm up to him and didn't want to.
"Let's take it from the top," Schufeldt said. "Danowski, Gloria."
Hallock tried not to show his irritation. This was the fifth time Schufeldt wanted to review the cases. Nothing new had developed since the first time they went over them, inch by inch, word by word. The chief opened the folder on his desk, picked out the autopsy report. "Why don't you just read it?" he asked evenly.
Schufeldt cocked his head to one side, an arrogant smile threatening to bloom. "I wouldn't have to be here if that's all I was going to do, Waldo."
It angered Hallock that this guy called him by his first name. He knew it was an interrogating technique designed to make the suspect feel inferior. Besides, he could be Schufeldt's father. In turn, Hallock never called him anything. "It seems pointless for me to read it aloud to you."
"Nothing I do is pointless, Waldo. There are things I hear when someone reads to me that I don't pick up when I read to myself. You understand, Waldo?"
There was no way he was going to answer. Hallock's eyes locked with Schufeldt's; the younger man's gaze, steady and chilly, was set for eternity. Hallock looked away. Angry with himself, he began to read aloud.
Schufeldt scratched at yellow lined paper from time to time. When Hallock finished the autopsy report, Schufeldt lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair, springs creaking. "Husband's statement," he ordered.
It went that way all morning until Hallock had finished what they had on Mary Beth Higbee, which wasn't much.
Schufeldt said, "Do you have a list of sex offenders, Waldo?"
"Yeah."
"Let's pull 'em in."
"What for? These aren't sex crimes."
"Some guys get their jollies funny ways, Waldo. I heard about a guy likes to be put in a coffin, just lies there while the broad stands next to the casket. He gets off that way. It takes all kinds, Waldo. There's another guy beats his meat while some girl pisses on his feet. I could tell you plenty, Waldo."
Hallock ignored the invitation. "I don't see what sex offenders have to do with these murderers. None of them were raped."