“Why?”
“Here, see for yourself.” Mac took the envelope out of his pocket. He was appalled at the severe trembling of his hands. It was as if his body had acknowledged his feelings of guilt before his mind was conscious of them. “I realize now that I should have shown this to you right away. Oh, I have the customary excuses: I was busy, I was fed up with Kate Oakley’s shenanigans, and so on. But excuses aren’t good enough. If I—”
“You’re too old for the if-game,” Gallantyne said and took the letter out of the envelope. “Was it folded like this when Mrs. Oakley received it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a switch anyway.” He read the letter through, half aloud. “ ‘Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel hazards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.’ ”
Gallantyne reread the letter, this time silently, then he tossed it on the table as though he wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible. The grooves in his face had deepened and drops of sweat appeared on his forehead, growing larger and larger until they fell of their own weight and were lost in his eyebrows. “All I can say is, I’m damn glad this wasn’t sent to the Brants. As it is, I figure the kid decided to throw a scare into her parents by running away. Probably one of the patrol cars has picked her up by now... Why the hell are you staring at me like that?”
“I think the letter was intended for Mrs. Brant.”
“You said it was addressed to Mrs. Oakley.”
“Jessie Brant and the Oakley girl, Mary Martha, are best friends. According to Brant, they’re inseparable, which no doubt involves a lot of visiting back and forth in each other’s houses. Mary Martha’s a tall girl for her age, a trifle overweight, and inclined to be cautious. The writer of the letter wasn’t describing Mary Martha. He, or she, was describing Jessie.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“I can be sure of two things. Mary Martha’s at home with her mother and Jessie isn’t.”
Gallantyne stood in silence for a minute. Then he picked up the letter, refolded it and put it in his pocket. “We won’t tell anybody about this right now, not the parents or the press or anyone else.”
(20)
Howard Arlington woke up at dawn in a motel room. Seen through half-closed eyes the place looked the same as a hundred others he’d stayed in, but gradually differences began to show up: the briefcase Virginia had given him years ago was not on the bureau where he always kept it, and the luggage rack at the foot of the bed was empty. When he turned his head his starched collar jabbed him in the neck and he realized he was still fully dressed. Even his tie was knotted. He loosened it but the tightness in his throat didn’t go away. It was as if, during the night, he’d tried to swallow something too large and too fibrous to be swallowed.
He got up and opened the drapes. Fog pressed against the window like the ectoplasm of lost spirits seeking shelter and a home. He closed the drapes again and turned on a lamp. Except for the outline of his body on the chenille bedspread, the room looked as though it hadn’t been occupied. The clothes closet was empty, the ashtrays unused, the drinking glasses on the bureau still wrapped in wax paper.
He couldn’t remember checking into the motel; yet he knew he must have registered, given his name and address and car license number, and paid in advance because he had no luggage. His last clear recollection was of Virginia standing in the Brants’ patio saying she didn’t want a child any more: “We no longer have anything to offer a child... How cruel it would be to pass along such an ugly thing as life. Poor Jessie... She will lose her innocence and high hopes and dreams; she will lose them all. By the time she’s my age she will have wished a thousand times that she were dead.”
He’d quarreled with Virginia and he was in a motel. These were the only facts he was sure of. Where the motel was, in what city, how he’d reached it and why, he didn’t know. He spent so much of his life driving from one city to another and checking in and out of motels that he must have acted automatically.
He left the room key on top of the bureau and went out to his car. On the front seat there was an empty pint bottle of whiskey and a hole half an inch wide burned in the upholstery by a cigarette. Fact three, he thought grimly, I was drunk. He put the bottle in the glove compartment and drove off.
The first street sign he came to gave him another fact: he was still in San Félice, down near the breakwater, no more than four miles from his own house.
The lights in the kitchen were on when he arrived. It was too early for Virginia to be awake and he wondered whether she’d left them on, expecting him home, or whether she’d forgotten to turn them off. She often forgot, or claimed to have forgotten. Sometimes he thought she kept them on deliberately because she was afraid of the dark but didn’t want to admit it. He parked his car beside hers in the garage, then crossed the driveway and walked up the steps of the back porch. The door was unlocked.
Virginia was sitting at the kitchen table with the big retriever lying beside her chair. Neither of them moved.
Howard said, “Virginia?”
The dog opened his eyes, wagged his tail briefly and perfunctorily, and went back to sleep.
“At least the dog usually barks when I get home,” he said. “Don’t I even rate that much anymore?”
Virginia turned. Her eyes were bloodshot, the lids blistered by the heat of her tears and surrounded by a network of lines Howard had never seen before. She spoke in a low, dull voice.
“The police are looking for you.”
“The police? Why in heaven’s name did you call them in? You knew I’d be back.”
“I didn’t. Didn’t know, didn’t call them.”
“What’s going on around here anyway? What have the police got to do with my getting drunk and spending the night in a motel?”
“Is that what you did, Howard?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Why should I have to prove it?”
She covered her face with her hands and started to weep again, deep, bitter sobs that shook her whole body. The dog rose to a sitting position and put his head on her lap, watching Howard out of the corner of his eye, as if he considered Howard responsible for the troubled sounds.
He blames me for everything, Howard thought, just the way she does. Only this time I don’t even know what I’m being blamed for. Did I do something while I was drunk that I don’t remember? I couldn’t have been in a fight. There are no marks on me and my clothes aren’t torn.
“Virginia, tell me what happened.”
“Jessie... Jessie’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Nobody knows. She... she just disappeared. Ellen took her a glass of water about ten o’clock and that’s the last anyone saw of her except—” She stopped, pressing the back of her hand against her trembling mouth.
“Except who?” Howard said.
“Whoever made her disappear.”
Howard stared at her, confused and helpless. He wasn’t sure whether she was telling the truth or whether she’d imagined the whole thing. She’d been acting and talking peculiarly last night, standing in the dichondra patch saying she was a tree.
She saw his incredulity and guessed the reason for it. “You think I’ve lost my mind. Well, I wish I had. It would be easier to bear than this, this terrible thing.” She began to sob again, repeating Jessie’s name over and over as if Jessie might be somewhere listening and might respond.