The truck kept going, its driver undoubtedly aware that something had struck his trailer but probably blaming it on a clump of wet snow that had shaken loose from the overpass and landed on him. There was another truck rolling down the lane but Jack didn't wait for the second impact. He walked to Ed's car and removed the cinderblock from the trunk. He threw it into a field as he walked the mile farther down the road to his own car. There would be no connection to his mother's death, no connection to him.
It was over.
He went home and put himself to bed, secure in the belief that starting tomorrow he could pick up his life again where he had left off.
He was wrong.
He slept into the afternoon of the following day. When he awoke, the enormity of what he had done descended on him with the weight of the earth itself. He had killed. More than that: He had executed another man.
He was tempted to cop an insanity plea, say it hadn't been him up there on the overpass but a monster wearing his skin. Someone else had been in control.
It wouldn't wash. It hadn't been someone else. It had been him. Jack. No one else. And he hadn't been in a fog or a fugue or consumed by a red haze of rage. He remembered every detail, every word, every move with crystal clarity.
No guilt. No remorse. That was the truly frightening part: The realization that if he could go back and relive those moments he wouldn't change a thing.
He knew that afternoon as he sat hunched on the edge of the bed that his life would never be the same. The young man in the mirror today was not the same one he had seen there yesterday. Everything looked subtly different. The angles and curves of his surroundings hadn't changed; faces and architecture and geography all stayed the same topographically. But someone had shifted the lighting. There were shadows where there had been light before.
Jack went back to Rutgers, but college no longer seemed to make any sense. He could sit and laugh and drink with his friends but he no longer felt a part of them. He was one step removed. He could still see and hear them, but could no longer touch them, as if a glass wall had risen between him and everyone he thought he knew.
He searched for a way to make some sense of it all. He went through the existentialist canon, devouring Camus and Sartre and Kierkegaard. Camus seemed to know the questions Jack was asking, but he gave no answers.
Jack flunked most of his second semester courses. He drifted away from his friends. When summer came he took all his savings and moved to New York, where the fix-it work continued with a gradually escalating level of danger and violence. He learned how to pick locks and pick the right gun and ammo for any given situation, how to break into a house and break an arm. He had been there ever since.
Everyone, including his father, blamed the change on the death of his mother. In a very roundabout way, they were right.
14
The overpass receded in his rear-view mirror, and with it the memory of that night. Jack wiped his sweaty palms against his slacks. He wondered where he'd be and what he'd be doing now if Ed had dropped that cinderblock a half-second earlier or later, letting it bounce relatively harmlessly off the hood or roof of his folks' car. Half a second would have meant the difference between life and death for his mother—and for Ed. Jack would have finished school, had a regular job with regular hours by now, a wife, kids, stability, identity, security. He'd be able to go through a whole conversation without lying. He'd be able to drive under that overpass without reliving two deaths.
Jack arrived in Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel and went directly crosstown. He drove past Sutton Square and saw a black-and-white parked outside Nellie's townhouse. After making a U-turn under the bridge, he drove back down to the mid-fifties and parked near a hydrant on Sutton Place South. He waited and watched. Before too long he saw the black-and-white pull out of Sutton Square and head uptown. He cruised around until he found a working pay phone and used it to call Nellie's.
"Hello?" Gia's voice was tense, expectant.
"It's Jack, Gia. Everything okay?"
"No." She seemed to relax. Now she just sounded tired.
"Police gone?"
"Just left."
"I'm coming over—that is, if you don't mind."
Jack expected an argument and some abuse; instead, Gia said, "No, I don't mind."
"Be there in a minute."
He got back into the car, pulled the Semmerling from under the seat and strapped it to his ankle. Gia hadn't given him an argument. She must be terrified.
15
Gia had never thought she would be glad to see Jack again. But when she opened the door and he was standing there on the front step, it required all her reserve to keep from leaping into his arms. The police had been no help. In fact, the two officers who finally showed up in response to her call had acted as if she were wasting their time. They had given the house a cursory once-over inside and out, had seen no sign of forced entry, had hung around asking a few questions, then had gone, leaving her alone with Vicky in this big empty house.
Jack stepped into the foyer. For a moment it seemed he would lift his arms and hold them out to her. Instead, he turned and closed the door behind him. He looked tired.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Vicky, too?"
"Yes. She's asleep." Gia felt as ill at ease as Jack looked.
"What happened?"
She told him about Vicky's nightmare and her subsequent search of the house for Nellie.
"The police find anything?"
"Nothing. 'No sign of foul play,' as they so quaintly put it. I believe they think Nellie's gone off to meet Grace somewhere on some kind of senile lark!"
"Is that possible?"
Gia's immediate reaction was anger that Jack could even consider such a thing, then realized that to someone who didn't know Nellie and Grace the way she did, it might seem as good an explanation as any.
"No! Utterly impossible!"
"Okay. I'll take your word for it. How about the alarm system?"
"The first floor was set. As you know, they had the upper levels disconnected. "
"So it's the same as with Grace: The Lady Vanishes."
"I don't think this is the time for cute movie references, Jack."
"I know," he said apologetically. "It's just my frame of reference. Let's take a look at her room."
As Gia led him up to the second floor, she realized that for the first time since she had seen Nellie's empty bed she was beginning to relax. Jack exuded competence. There was an air about him that made her feel that things were finally under control here, that nothing was going to happen without his say-so.
He wandered through Nellie's bedroom in a seemingly nonchalant manner, but she noticed that his eyes constantly darted about, and that he never touched anything with his fingertips—with the side or back of a hand, with the flat edge of a fingernail or a knuckle, but never in any way that might conceivably leave a print. All of which served as an uncomfortable reminder of Jack's state of mind and his relationship with the law.
He nudged the French doors open with a foot. Warm humid air swam into the room.
"Did the cops unlock this?"
Gia shook her head. "No. It wasn't even latched, just closed over."
Jack stepped out onto the tiny balcony and looked over the railing.
"Just like Grace's," he said. "Did they check below?"
"They were out there with flashlights—said there was no sign that a ladder or the like had been used."
"Just like Grace." He came in and elbowed the doors closed. "Doesn't make sense. And the oddest part is that you wouldn't have found out she was gone until sometime tomorrow if it hadn't been for Vicky's nightmare." He looked at her. "You're sure it was a nightmare? Is it possible she heard something that woke her up and scared her and you only thought it was a nightmare?"