“Yes, of course,” Farrell said. He put a cigarette between his dry lips. “Who are they?”
“They’re teen-agers, both of them, sons of a doctor who lives in Rosedale. Their names are David and Mark King. They took their mother’s car while she was entertaining some friends at lunch, and went for a joyride. When they struck your daughter they were too frightened to stop. But they owned up to what they’d done about an hour ago and their father brought them right in. Both kids are in sad shape, but I don’t expect you’ll have any sympathy to spare for them. And I don’t blame you. Doctor King wanted to come over to see you tonight, but I told him it might be better to talk to you at the hearing tomorrow morning.”
“Look, are you sure of this?” Farrell said. “How do you know they’re not lying?”
“Well, why should they? People don’t usually lie to get themselves in trouble — it’s the other way around. But aside from that we’ve checked their story and there’s no doubt they’re telling the truth.”
“I see,” Farrell said slowly, and ran a hand over his damp forehead. “There’s no chance of a mistake, then.”
“Certainly not. I thought you’d be glad to know they’re in custody.”
“Of course,” Farrell said. He closed his eyes and saw Jerry’s bruised and bloody face, the back of his brown, corded neck in that instant before Malleck’s fist had driven him to the floor. “Yes, I’m glad,” he said. “Thanks for calling, Lieutenant. What time is the hearing?”
“Around nine. I’ll see you there.”
Farrell put the phone down and looked at the backs of his hands. The knuckles were marked and cut in a half-dozen places, and the knuckle of the middle finger on his right hand was raised in an irregular lump. Jerry had got what he deserved; Farrell tried hard to make himself believe that as he lifted the receiver to call his wife.
Chapter Eleven
Lights gleamed on the first floor of Wayne Norton’s home. Norton stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking down at the dinner place that had been set for him in the yellow breakfast nook; square modern silverware, a service of white plate, salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen, all of it placed neatly on a black plastic mat. He had been staring at the table for several minutes, standing motionless with his hands limp at his sides. His dinner was on the electric range: a tunafish casserole, salad and rolls.
Norton put a fist against his forehead and pressed hard against the pain pulsing heavily above his eyes. He wasn’t drunk; he was agonizingly sober. For another moment he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and then he went quietly through the house and stepped into the powder room in the hallway. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water, dried them on one of the tiny blue guest towels Janey’s mother had sent them last Christmas. There was a bottle of cologne in the cabinet above the hand basin. Norton rubbed the lemon-scented essence on his hands and face, then carefully combed bis smooth black hair.
For an instant he looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing in his face to betray him; mild, incurious eyes stared back at him, in harmony with handsome undistinguished features, a tab-collar and neatly knotted tie. Except for the muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, it was the reflection he bad observed with casual approval since he had reached maturity.
“Wayne?” It was Janey’s voice. “Wayne? Is that you?”
Norton’s face seemed to shimmer in the mirror, breaking with pain. Не leaned against the wall, breathing through his open mouth.
Janey called again, her querulous and rather childish voice drawing his name into two syllables. “Way — ane? Are you downstairs?”
Norton opened the door of the powder room and stepped into the hallway. He called up the stairs: “Hi, honey. I thought you were asleep.”
“No, I was reading. I’m glad you’re home.”
“Can I bring you anything when I come up?”
“I’d love a glass of hot milk. With just a little sugar in it. Would you mind, honey?”
“Of course not. I’ll be right up.” He rubbed his forehead and blisters of cold sweat broke under his hand. “How’s Junior? All tucked away for the night?”
“He wanted to wait up to kiss you good night, but that’s just his clever way of getting another half hour of TV. He’s dead to the world.”
Norton went back to the kitchen and put a saucepan of milk on the stove. He set a tray with cup and saucer, sugar bowl, napkin and spoon.
Suddenly he had an impulse to shout: she liked it, she liked it. He could feel the words swelling in his tight throat, vile and blasphemous as prayers to the devil. With trembling fingers he put a cigarette in his mouth, and went into the dark living room. He paced the floor as if trying to escape his thoughts, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, his hands pressed tightly against his temples. But he could not exorcise the demons in his mind. Of course she liked it. The struggles and pleadings were all a trick, a clever act...
Cleo Soltis. He had picked up the things that had fallen from her shoulder bag and had seen her name lettered neatly on the identification card of a key chain. For some reason it had seemed important to put her purse back in order. He had collected her compact, her address book and coins, crawling about on his knees to do so, and all the time she had lain on the sofa with her face turned away from him, slight breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathing, her legs white and languid against the coarse fabric of the sofa. She was no longer crying.
He had put the purse in the crook of her arm and touched her warm wet cheek. The words he had said to her sounded wildly in his mind: “You’re not mad, are you? I’m a good man. I have a wife and a little son. They know I’m a good man.”
And then the blond boy on the floor had stirred and Norton had leaped away from the girl’s side to run through the darkness to his car.
His thoughts were like desperate prayers. Of course she wouldn’t give in without a struggle; that was part of the game. When she was older she would understand that.
He sat down at the telephone desk and snapped on the lamp. The room was neat and clean, efficiently poised for tomorrow; pillows straightened and plumped up, ashtrays emptied, Junior’s school books piled on a straight-back chair in the hallway. If I could just talk to her, he thought in despair. Why in God’s name had it happened? If they could meet in some quiet place, the two of them at ease, the things said forgotten, the shame and guilt dead between them, then he could make everything all right. He could explain it.
The image of this, and the peace it would bring him, were more vivid than the familiar room, the school books and soft lamplight, the fragrance of milk warming in the kitchen. She would listen to him quietly, that was important, that she listen to him without interrupting. Let him talk it out. She would understand then. She might even be a bit ashamed of herself. He would say, “I’m sorry if I seemed, well, impatient, but that is actually a compliment to you, don’t you see?” It was a good angle, he thought. He imagined her reaction to this flattery, a smile, winsome and knowing, and then her reply: “Well, there’s nothing to be sorry about, I guess. We both know that, don’t we?”
Then it would be over, everything just as it was before last night’s dreadful moment of fury and need. But he was in her power; only she could forgive him.
Norton reached out slowly and touched the telephone book. He felt the quickening stroke of his heart and had the sudden frightening feeling that he was being observed; he looked quickly into the shadows of the dining room, half-expecting to see someone watching him, but the room was empty and in the kitchen there was steam rising from the saucepan of milk.