It was almost dark by the time I reached home. I’d left lights on for myself, but Henry’s place was dark. I figured he was up at Rosie’s, so I did a turnabout and walked the half block. I was itchy with anxiety, but I wasn’t up to a social visit unless we could talk in private. Rosie’s front windows were plastered with the usual beer and liquor ads, but a quick peek revealed Anna sitting at the table with Henry. Except for the boobs, I wasn’t jealous of her, but she was getting on my nerves.
Walking back to my place, I passed an unfamiliar turquoise Thunderbird, which I imagined was one of Rosie’s patrons taking up valuable parking space. I let myself into my studio and flipped off the porch light. I sat down at my desk, gathered my index cards, secured them with a rubber band, and tossed them into my bottom drawer. With Cheney and Jonah on it, my notes were beside the point. The sole remaining keepsake, if you want to think of it as such, was Pete’s cardboard box that I was using as a footrest. I still believed I was right. Given my particular personality disorder, once I get on a thought track, I have trouble getting off.
I felt a nearly irresistible urge to create another, better explanation for Pete’s death, but I resisted. Once I’m convinced B follows A and that Y precedes Z, it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at, that’s what I see. I’d developed a theory about Pete’s relationship to Linton Reed and I made sure everything fit . . . which, I realized now, was much the same thing Linton Reed was doing with his data trimming, only without the loss of life.
I wondered (belatedly, I grant you) if I’d been using this entire enterprise as a way of avoiding anxiety about the sudden drop in business. I’d been thinking of these past weeks as unpaid vacation time, immersing myself in the issues of Dace’s last will and testament so I could feel busy and productive when in fact I had no money coming in. I was not without ample savings, but I didn’t want to go through my rainy-day funds. I’m cheap. I grew up in pinched circumstances. Financial excess is good. Penury is not.
I lifted my head and realized I was hearing a steady stream of cat talk outside. Ed had probably been chatting for some time, but I hadn’t been tuned in. I went to the door and peered out the porthole, angling my gaze so I could see the doormat. Sure enough, Ed was sitting there, the two rows of potted marigolds forming a runway on either side of him.
I flipped on the porch light and opened the door, saying, “How do you manage this? I know Henry didn’t leave you out.”
He said something that I didn’t get. He came in, possibly to inspect the premises. He began a leisurely tour, making sure all was in order.
“Hang on,” I said.
Maybe Anna had been careless. More likely, the cat had some secret means of ingress and egress.
I grabbed Henry’s keys, picked Ed up, and tucked him under one arm, flipping the thumb lock to the unlocked position before I closed the door behind me. My personal escort service might have been his scheme all along since he immediately began to purr. I unlocked Henry’s back door and dropped the cat inside. I returned to my place, crossing the patio, which was washed in weak light from my porch lamp. I turned the doorknob and discovered that I’d locked myself out. Well, that was irritating. I must have locked the door when I thought I was unlocking it. My handbag and keys were inside and I was stuck outside. I assessed the situation and realized it was a minor inconvenience easily remedied. I could either let myself into Henry’s kitchen and snag his spare keys, which included one for my door, or I could trot up to Rosie’s, suffer Anna’s company, and have him buy me a glass of wine. I opted for the wine.
It wasn’t until I turned to leave that I realized Linton Reed was standing in the shadow of the driveway. He wore a dark overcoat. He looked completely out of place in the midst of such familiar sights. The Adirondack chair and the aluminum lawn chair were still pulled close together, as though William and I hadn’t finished talking. There was a trowel on Henry’s potting bench that he might have left there two minutes ago instead of the hours it had probably been. Clay pots of marigolds awaited placement around the edges of the patio.
Linton Reed had his hands in his coat pockets and he was completely still. This seemed odd to me. Charming people, like great white sharks, are always in motion. Their charm depends on sleight of hand; a smile, a tone, anything to suggest they have an active inner life that fuels the public image. They depend on motion to give them breath. It’s because they’re dead inside that they work so hard to maintain the illusion that they have souls.
“Hi, Dr. Reed,” I said. “Anna said you might stop by.” I moved toward him, showing what a friendly little thing I was.
His reply was late in coming by two beats. “Did she now.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was thoughtful, as though he were contemplating the possibility.
“She said you wanted to pick up that bottle of pills.”
Again, the slow response. “When we spoke, you didn’t tell me you had them.”
“Because I didn’t at that point. After you talked about the danger of unidentified medications in circulation, I asked a couple of Dace’s friends if they knew what he’d done with his pills. As it happens, he’d given them to a homeless fellow, who turned them over to me. I threw them in the trash. I hope that was all right.” He’d triggered the chatty side of my nature, which often comes to the fore when I’m worried I’ll wet my pants.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh. Well, good. Because the point is, I don’t have the pills. If I did, I’d give them to you. I certainly have no use for them myself.”
“You led me to believe you had a simple query about a family member when all the time you sat there convinced I’d done something bad. I didn’t come here asking about the pills. You jumped to the subject yourself because you’re guilty of such deceit.”
“I have no reason to feel guilty.”
He ignored that comment. “I received a call from Eloise Cantrell, who says you accosted her on the street, asking questions about me.”
“I didn’t accost her. How ridiculous. I ran into her at St. Terry’s as she was leaving for the day. I knew she worked on the CCU because she’d called me months ago when Dace was admitted. I asked if she knew you and she said she did. That’s all it was. I’d talked to you earlier and it just seemed like a happy coincidence.”
I watched his face cloud over.
He shook his head, frowning. “Something’s off. Let’s go back. You came to my office unannounced hoping to catch me off guard. You presented yourself in a false light, gathering information for reasons known only to yourself.”
“I probably should have been more forthcoming,” I said. “Here’s what happened. I’m sure you know Terrence Dace was suspicious and confused. His behavior was erratic and he harbored paranoid fantasies. I thought I should look into it. It had nothing to do with you personally. I got involved because he’d drawn up a will in which he disinherited his children and left everything to me. I was concerned about a legal challenge, so I was doing my due diligence . . .”
Wincing, he pressed the flat of his hand to the side of his face, like a child with a painful ear infection. “You keep talking and talking. You use talk as a cover for something else, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Really, I don’t. I think you’ve misunderstood.”
“No, I have not. You’re devious. I don’t know how else to describe your behavior.”
“I haven’t meant to be devious.”
“But it’s your nature, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t say that about myself.”
“Do you have any idea how perilous your position is?”
“Perilous?”
“I have you to thank for what’s happening. It’s as simple as that. When we spoke in my office, I didn’t grasp your agenda. I was at fault there for not being quicker off the mark. My apologies.”
In a situation like this, it’s of little comfort knowing you’re right. I was right about Linton Reed. I’d been right all alon
g, but who was I going to tell?
“I don’t have an agenda,” I said.
“Yes, you do. You talk to people about me. You write things down. You think about things that are none of your concern.”
“I haven’t done anything to you. I asked a few questions, but only to determine Dace’s state of mind when he changed the will.”
Dr. Reed was exasperated. “You’re lying again. You’ve undercut whatever credibility you had. I was offering you a chance to explain yourself and you’re throwing off all this smoke.”
I had a quick little chat with myself, saying: Here’s a tip, Self. Do not argue with a lunatic. Arguing with a lunatic simply ensures that you’ll climb into his craziness with him when what you want to do is take a big step back.
He held up his right hand. “Do you see this?”
His fingertips were black.
“The police insisted on taking my prints. Can you imagine my humiliation? My wife was there and they took hers as well. The detective was polite, but I hated the way he looked at me. He was taking my measure. He weighed every word I said. I’ve never been treated like that in my life, but I had to maintain control of myself because I knew he’d be writing things down.”
I was getting cold standing out on the patio in the half-light. A thought popped to mind, one of those insights that comes too late to be of any use. This felt like that game show where the contestants are given an answer and asked to frame the relevant question. I said, “Who is Sanford Wray?”
“He’s my father-in-law.”
I nodded, my mouth suddenly too dry to form a response.
I caught motion on the drive. I looked over and spotted Anna just as she spotted me. She turned on her heel. Linton glanced in that direction. “Who are you looking at?”
I cleared my throat and tried again. “Neighborhood dog. He’s always wandering into the yard.”
He closed his eyes, testing the truth value of the statement. For once I was lying outright and Linton missed it, so maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought. Maybe I wasn’t that smart either because Anna might have helped me if I hadn’t read her the riot act.
I said, “You know what? Why don’t we forget all this and start from scratch? Somehow I gave you the wrong impression and I apologize.”
“Impression? We’re not talking about impressions. We’re talking about the truth of what’s going on.”
“Which is what? I’m not getting this.”
“You’re ruining my life. You’re tearing down everything I worked so hard to achieve.”
I shook my head, saying, “I’m not. I wouldn’t do that.”
He smiled slightly. “Well. Perhaps you’re right. I suppose there’s no point in arguing since it won’t change anything.”
For a moment, I was quiet. Linton Reed was about to declare himself. Then again, so was I. “You know what your problem is?”
He fixed his attention on me. He’d been in that strange little twisted world of his where he was the king. “What’s that?”
“You don’t know a Ruger from a Glock.”
His smile faded and his eyes went dead. He removed a flat silver case from his coat pocket and triggered the lid.
I couldn’t bring myself to look. I kept my eyes locked on his. Was there anyone alive in there? My heart had started to bang as though I’d just climbed a flight of stairs.
“Look what I brought for you,” he said.
I looked down. The interior was lined with black velvet. In the center was a scalpel. A jolt of ice moved down my spine, chilling every nerve it touched. The effect was odd, like that spritzy jangle you feel when you contact a hot wire.
“This was my specialty. My first love,” he said.
He plucked the scalpel from its velvet bed, snapped the case shut, and returned it to his coat pocket. He held the surgical instrument so it caught the light. “I call him ‘the Biter.’ He’s quick and sharp. This blade is my favorite. A number twelve. You see how this portion curves. That’s his music. A sweet high note you’ll hear when he whistles through your flesh.”
His eyes met mine. “No need to be apprehensive. You won’t suffer. He’ll see to that. A burning sensation, but so brief. Think of it as lightning, illuminating your soul. A starburst followed by quiet.”
I felt tears well. “I bet you introduced him to Terrence Dace when he was admitted to the CCU.”
“He was very sick. He was doomed. I offered him a better death. The aide came in so I said good night. I said we’d come back for him.”
He lashed out at me so abruptly, I could feel the blade displace the air as it whipped across my face. I jerked back. I put my hand behind me, grabbing the arm of the aluminum lawn chair to keep from stumbling. I glanced down and then swung the chair in a hard arc. I caught Linton by surprise, though he managed to get his arm up to soften the impact. He focused on me with curiosity, perhaps with a touch of respect. I wondered if he thought I’d go down without a fight.
I held the chair in front of me, the four legs keeping him at bay. He paused to consider his options and then lashed out again. He was quick in the way a striking snake is quick. Out and back, hoping to bury his blade in me. I struck him with the chair, driving at him with all four legs. A hard bang as the two front legs jabbed his chest. I backed up and to my left, forcing him to shift right to keep me in range. From the corner of my eye, I saw a touch of white.
The cat was out.
Linton saw him at the same time I did and I watched his eyes flicker toward Ed. I struck again to distract him. Ed paid no attention to either one of us. He sat down and licked his paw, grooming his face with a curling gesture that broke my heart.
Now it was Linton who moved. I knew what he was up to. A demonstration. The Biter cutting to the bone. The simplicity of math. If not me, the cat. My only advantage was that I could devote both hands to the chair I held while his left hand was occupied. A leftie. I’d forgotten. He had his little friend to protect. I lunged, snapping the chair in front of me like a lion tamer. It was too light to do him any harm, but it created a buffer zone between us.
He snatched at the chair and I pushed abruptly, causing him to stumble backward by one step. I leaned left and I grabbed a clay pot of marigolds by the rim. I threw it hard, directly at his face. A gash opened up on his forehead. Scalp wounds really are the most dramatic. No reaction from him. He probably didn’t feel a thing. The Biter flew again and I didn’t draw back in time. The blade nicked me on the cheek. Linton liked that, drawing blood for blood. I abandoned the chair. I grabbed the big plastic bag of sphagnum moss and held it in front of me like a chest protector. Linton struck and the blade opened up a long slit. Moss bulged through the cut like internal organs being liberated.
I stooped to the mound of lawn mulch and swept upward, an armload of fine dirt flying at his face. He inhaled silt and coughed. He backed up, his body racked as his lungs fought off the insult. The dirt had stuck to his sweaty skin. A minstrel in blackface.
I grabbed a second clay pot and threw it. He deflected it with his arm. Striking him in the head was my only hope. His heavy coat offered him padding. I was in jeans, shirt, and running shoes, my movements unhampered where he had the bulk of his coat to contend with. The only sounds we made were the grunts of two tennis players, putting everything we had into each shot. My body heat had jumped from chill to flame in the space of those few minutes. He was sweating. The Biter must have been slippery in his fingers but his grip was sure.
I saw his eyes flicker again. I’d lost track of the cat whereas Linton had not. Ed had retreated into the shrubs, where he watched us warily. He crouched much closer to Linton than to me. I’d give up before I’d let Linton hurt the cat. My chest was on fire. My heart banged in my ears. I wanted to say don’t. I wanted to protest. Linton plunged into the bush and grabbed the cat. This was a mistake. Ed twisted and spat, hissing as he ripped into Linton with his claws. Linton struggled to secure his hold, but Ed propelled himself out of Linton’s hands like a
whirling dervish. Linton made a sound and the cat was off like a shot. He put a hand to his cheek and then checked his fingertips. He was bleeding. I could see the angry red welt where Ed had made his mark with his rear claws.
I needed a shield. Something between me and the blade. The aluminum lawn chair had folded in on itself to form a flat metal plank. We grabbed for it at the same time, both of us now holding on with two hands. The Biter remained in Linton’s grip, but he couldn’t maneuver the blade while clinging to the chair. He released his hold, allowing me full possession for all the good it would do. The chair was crudely constructed, not meant to endure much in the way of punishment. It was already growing heavy. My arms burned from the weight.
Linton wanted full access. No impediments. Just me and the small deadly rapier no bigger than his index finger. I heaved the chair at him, but I was too tired to do so with any force. He backed up a step and the chair dropped with scarcely a sound. He lashed and as I jumped, I banged into the potting bench. I snatched the pruning shears from the spot where they were affixed to the garage wall. The second set was bigger, but I had to work with what was closest to hand. I opened the blades and chopped at him. The sound was good, so I chopped at him again.
I swung the shears as though at batting practice. Linton’s face was red and his breathing was hoarse. The sound of childhood asthma. I pictured him chubby. A white, fleshy boy. A sissy on the playground. I could have beaten him in second grade, but girls didn’t do those things back then. I held the pruning shears low, giving my arms a rest. He struck. I jumped back, angling the shears in front of me. I whacked his left hand full force, hoping his fingers would loosen. He backed up a pace, pausing to catch his breath.
In his hand, the Biter had the look of a claw.
This was the difference between us. He was nuts. I was mad. His thinking was disorganized while I wasn’t thinking at all.
I went after him. My only hope was to wear him down. He was heavier than I by a good seventy pounds. I was light on my feet. I was speedier. I would never give up. I would fight to the death if that’s what it took. He had his hands on his knees. He panted. I moved toward him, pulling the shears back like a baseball bat. I knew the risk. Linton might not be as tired as he looked. I might not be as strong. I drove at him, aiming for his head. His hand came up to protect his face. I struck the Biter on follow-through and watched the scalpel fly off into the dark. When I looked down, Linton was on his back. His coat was caught under him, leaving his belly exposed. I lifted the shears above my head like a sword.