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  “Okay. Lead me to that bed, baby.” Ruddy grinned meekly.

  “See you, Tommy.”

  “Take it easy, Dad,” Tommy called out in a seemingly false voice of joy.

  With her arm affectionately entwined about her husband’s sturdy waist, Agnes led Ruddy into the bedroom.

  “Tired, darling?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Yeah. And excited too,” he confessed.

  “Pull off your clothes and lie down and—”

  “Naw. Just my shoes. Captain Snell’s coming at four o’clock.”

  “Want a sleeping pill?”

  “No, no. Just a little relaxation.”

  He slipped off his shoes and eased himself onto the bed; Agnes sat beside him and put her cool, soft palm on his brow.

  “What a day,” she whispered to him.

  “You can say that again,” he murmured, eyes closed.

  “Are you glad?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Why no?”

  Ruddy was silent for a long time. Agnes moved her hand and stood.

  “Sleep.”

  “No,” Ruddy said quickly, opening his eyes and lifting himself up on an elbow. “Say, Agnes, when did Tommy start doing this fieldwork in Brentwood Park for his course in sociology?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Agnes said, frowning. “Oh, yes. I think it was at the beginning of February—the beginning of the fi rst semester. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why? How?” Ruddy asked, the policeman in him forcing him to demand logic from his wife.

  “Why? Because it was—”

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  “Right after that affair he had with that girl, wasn’t it?”

  Ruddy asked excitedly.

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “Agnes.”

  “Yes.”

  “What in hell happened with Tommy and that girl? Do you know?”

  “No more than what he told me,” she said.

  “He was engaged to marry her,” Ruddy summarized. “And then he broke it off. Or she did. What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” Agnes said.

  “Goddamn,” Ruddy growled. “I don’t know that boy of mine.

  He’s my son and I don’t know a thing that is happening with him.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, darling,” Agnes protested. “You know him as well as I do. Tommy’s right here every day and—”

  “I don’t know ’im!” Ruddy almost shouted.

  “No, darling. Don’t shout. He’ll hear you and—”

  “I’m sorry.” Ruddy was suddenly contrite. “But don’t you see what I mean? He was engaged to marry. Then it’s off. And I couldn’t get a goddamn word about it out of ’im. Now, tell me, didn’t he say something to you? Didn’t he tell you anything?”

  “Nothing, Ruddy,” she said. “I didn’t want to press ’im. He was in such a state. I thought I’d make ’im feel worse. A father maybe could get it out of him better than I could.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t talk to me,” Ruddy complained.

  “All I could get out of him was that he didn’t want to speak of it. That he was all right. Always he said: ‘I’m all right.’ I don’t like that. Look, think back. That morning he went to buy that marriage license . . . what happpened?”

  “Nothing. He went out. Just before he left, he told me confi -

  dently that he was going to get the license. He was smiling, eager, excited, and all . . . then he left. Two hours later he came back. He

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  looked green, pale, sick. I was scared. I asked him what was wrong.

  He said, ‘Nothing. But that marriage is off.’ That was all. I kept at

  ’im and he started yelling. ‘Leave me alone!’ That was all. I touched him. He was as cold as ice. He was sweating. He had had a shock of some kind. There was no doubt about that. And soon after that was when he said that he had quit his field studies in the Black Belt and was working with that Heard boy in Brentwood Park, wasn’t it?”

  Agnes stared, then started. Then she forced a laugh.

  “Good Lord, Ruddy,” she exclaimed in a whisper, “you’re not linking Tommy’s doing that with the murder of that Catholic priest?”

  “I didn’t say anything about that,” Ruddy protested quickly. “I just want to know when he began studying that area, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I thought it was about the girl you wanted to know,”

  Agnes said innocently.

  Ruddy gaped. Yes, deep in him there had been stirring a vague thought about that. Ruddy had quit his studies in the Black Belt right after his marriage was put off, and it was soon after that he had begun frequenting Brentwood Park.

  “If Tommy was studying in that area about that time, then he could tell me a lot about the atmosphere and attitude of the people there,” Ruddy said, rationalizing his mood.

  “But he knew nothing about that murder or the other one,”

  Agnes said stoutly.

  “Yes,” Ruddy said. “It is not about those killings I want to ask him but about the population, see?”

  “Oh.”

  “And he knew that Heard boy when he was killed,” Ruddy maintained.

  “Yes. He told us of it before we read it in the papers,” Agnes remembered.

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  Ruddy felt a desire to ask Agnes if she recalled the exact date and time of his son’s speaking of that third crime, but he desisted. No, that would make Agnes feel bad. Goddamn, he was acting too much like a cop about his son. Yes, he would talk to him. But that talk would have to be different from the one he had had a little while ago.

  “He’s a stranger to me,” Ruddy burst out.

  “Who?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t say that. You sound angry,” Agnes chided him.

  “But, dammit, a father ought to know his own son—”

  “We all have our secret places, places that we don’t want others to touch or poke,” Agnes said. “Something that hurt him happened with that Marie. I know it. I feel it. And I think the best thing to do is leave it alone.”

  “But he ought to be able to tell his father,” Ruddy contended. “I’m not only his father. I’m his friend.”

  “But he does not want to talk of it,” Agnes insisted. “I know.”

  “Why doesn’t he wish to?”

  “I don’t know, Ruddy, some people are like that. So one leaves ’em alone. Oh, he’s all right. I’m sure he is.”

  “Maybe.” Ruddy sighed.

  “Darling, are you really worried about something? About Ruddy?”

  “I was planning to pal around with Tommy before this new job came up,” Ruddy said. “Now, I seem further from ’im than ever.”

  “Look, honey, now you and he will have so much more in common—you with this new work of yours,” Agnes told him.

  “Look at it that way.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You say you want to get close to ’im,” Agnes argued. “Then

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  rely upon him more. Ask him his opinion. He’s very sharp. He’ll feel more confidence in himself. I know how young people feel.”

  “You reckon that’ll work?” Ruddy asked.

  “I’m sure of it. You’ll see.”

  “You might be right.” He sighed.

  “I’m glad that you think of him so,” Agnes said. “But do be patient. Take time. He’s so young and sensitive. He’s not self-made like you are. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  Ruddy stared. Though he had heard his wife, his mind was grappling with something else. Maybe Tommy might have a hunch worth listening to. All the experts had failed. And Tommy had known Charles Heard intimately! By God, yes. He would milk Tommy for every iota of information about that murdered boy.

&
nbsp; His ideas. His habits. Whom he knew. Strange, but the police had questioned Tommy only casually about Charles Heard. Well, hell, he’d reopen the whole damn case. Maybe the information, the clue he sought was right here under his own roof. His skin tingled. That seemed unreal, too odd. Yet an element of irrational danger seemed to breathe upon him, as though he were watching a strange cloud of drifting poison gas, gray in color, seeping toward him, and he could see one whiff of it straying toward him, with the vast, formless mass of it, the rest of it, following.

  “I’ll see,” he said softly.

  “You’ll try to sleep now?”

  “Yes,” he lied, stretching out on the bed again.

  “I’ll see you soon. I’m leaving now. There’s chicken for lunch. You’ll want to eat again before that captain comes, won’t you, darling?”

  “Yes,” he said vaguely.

  She went out and he was still. He lay a moment with closed eyes. Deep down beyond the reach of his conscious mind was a rising storm of feeling, making him restless. No, he could not

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  sleep. He rose and paced the room in his socked feet. Footsteps sounded in the backyard, and he peered out to see Bertha, the maid, hanging up clothes; then there came to his ears the faintly echoed clang of a pan in the kitchen. Yes, Agnes, giving a hand to Bertha, was starting lunch. But he was not hungry and the mere idea of food was repugnant. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin, staring into space. Then a third sound floated to his ears: the tapping of Tommy’s typewriter. Yeah, I’m going to talk to that boy now. Yes—that was the decision he had been trying all along to make. And the split second he had made it, he felt better, organized, pointed with purpose. He slipped into his shoes, tied the laces, and went down the hallway. Before Tommy’s door he halted, his knuckles lifted to knock. But ought he? He was on the point of turning back when he caught a pause in the typing. He rapped. There was a long silence.

  “Yeah?” came Tommy’s voice, carrying a trace of annoyance.

  “It’s me, son,” he said.

  There was another silence, then the door was fl ung abruptly open.

  “Come in, Dad,” Tommy invited carelessly. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “No. Just stretched out a bit,” Ruddy said, feeling guilty and foolish. “Terribly busy?”

  “Not too,” Tommy pouted, then he smiled.

  Yeah, he’s nervous. Goddamnit, he suspects that I want to talk to him. And, by God, I will.

  “Mind if I sit down and talk a bit?” Ruddy asked.

  “No. Oh no. Take a chair, Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ruddy took the armchair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them. Suddenly he felt the gun pressing almost pain-fully against his right hip.

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  “Hell,” he growled, “this damned gun.” He unbuckled the holster and laid the gun across Tommy’s bed. “Get sick of carrying that damned thing.”

  “Y-you always carry it?”

  “Sure. Regulations.”

  “How does it feel to walk around with a death-dealing instru -

  ment always on you?” Tommy asked in a quiet, confi dential voice.

  “Oh, you get used to it.”

  “You really forget it’s a gun? ”

  “Kind of. It becomes a part of you.”

  “B-but you don’t think of it as something with which you can kill others?” Tommy asked with a forced smile.

  Ruddy stared. Here it was again. Those damned tricky questions.

  “No. It’s something with which I defend myself,” Ruddy said.

  “Others don’t see it like that.”

  “How do they see it?”

  “You carry something that can kill them instantly,” Tommy stated.

  “Not unless they do something,” Ruddy corrected him, modifying his role.

  “Only upon policemen has society conferred the right to kill,” Tommy said.

  “Aw, hell, Tommy,” Ruddy exploded. “We kill only to protect life and property.”

  “Did you ever shoot a man to protect property?” Tommy asked.

  Ruddy thought a bit. Then shook his head: “No.”

  “To protect life?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes. Mine.”

  “Never other people’s lives?”

  Again Ruddy refl ected. “No.”

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  “Then there is really no need to carry that gun to protect lives and property, other than your own life, is there?”

  At last anger flashed full and strong and clear in him.

  “Goddamn, Tommy! Where are you getting these crazy ideas from? Who’s been talking to you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “This stuff you ask . . . you get it out of those books at the university?”

  “Not books at the university.” Tommy smiled. “Just books and books. You can find ’em everywhere.”

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “Are you against me?”

  “What makes you ask a thing like that?” Tommy was shaken.

  “I just want to know. Your questions and remarks bother me.”

  “No, Dad. Not you. I’m just curious about the system of society in which we live. My questions are not directed to you.

  It’s the kind of questions we ask at school every day,” Tommy argued.

  “Don’t you believe that my profession is respectable?”

  Ruddy demanded.

  “All social functions are respectable. They spring from mutual needs.” Tommy evaded him.

  “Tommy, what in hell’s wrong with you?” Ruddy demanded openly.

  “Does something seem to be wrong?” Tommy countered.

  “Can’t you answer me straight?”

  “We just don’t understand each other, Dad,” Tommy sighed.

  Shame and guilt choked Ruddy. Hell, this was no way to to talk to one’s son. He was treating Tommy not only as an equal but as a kind of dreaded superior. Yes, he would have to change his tone, attitude, and approach.

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  “Son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll tell you anything I know about Brentwood Park and—”

  “No, no. It’s not about that. . . . It’s about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to bring this up now, but something in me keeps hammering at me about it,” Ruddy began nervously.

  “Son, I don’t want to probe into your private and personal life.

  I feel you are a man like me and you’ve got your rights. But I want to know you. After all, I’m your father. You’re my son.

  Isn’t that right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Tommy, last year . . . that girl you were going to marry. It didn’t work out?”

  “No. I told you that.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t want to talk about that.”

  “Might be good for you.”

  “Ha, ha. You mean, confession is good for the soul. If the criminal unburdens himself, he’ll sleep better.”

  “Aw, come off it, Tommy. You know I don’t mean that. Tell me this: Did you break it off or did she?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does. You’re my son. I want to know what’s happening with you.”

  “She did nothing. And neither did I.”

  “Did the family interfere?”

  “No.”

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  “Then what interfered?”

  “Society?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Dad, I don’t wish to talk of this,” Tommy wailed.

  And Ruddy saw pain in his eyes. Yes, goddamnit, there is something wro
ng. And though he was tempted to desist, he knew he had to go on.

  “Tommy, I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened,”

  Ruddy said.

  “Talking about it isn’t going to help!”

  “Let me decide that. You said ‘society’ stopped you. How?

  Why?”

  “It’s all crazy,” Tommy muttered.

  “Maybe. But tell me about it.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll find out, then,” Ruddy threatened.

  “How?” Tommy’s eyes were truly fearful now.

  “I’m an officer,” Ruddy said. “I could fi nd out.”

  “Aw, no, Dad,” Tommy pleaded.

  Ruddy felt that he was near his quarry. The detective in him urged him not to let up; his feelings as a father spurred him on.

  It’ll be for his own good if he tells me, he told himself.

  “Well, I’ll find out,” Ruddy said. “I’ll not stop until I do.”

  “Dad, don’t meddle in this,” Tommy warned.

  “Marie was colored,” Ruddy spoke aloud. “So when you say

  ‘society’ stopped you, it could not be a question of race. Then what was it?”

  Tommy’s whole body seemed to grow rigid, and Ruddy saw beads of sweat on his forehead. Jesus Christ, I got to make this boy unburden himself.

  “Tell me about it, son?”

  “Goddamn, no!” Tommy suddenly screamed.

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  Ruddy ran to the boy and put his arms about his shoulders.

  “You can say anything to me, Tommy.”

  “Goddamn this world—and everybody and everything in it,” Tommy sobbed.

  “Okay. Okay. Cry a bit. But tell me,” Ruddy insisted.

  “Leave me alone,” Tommy begged, speaking, it seemed, more to himself than to his father.

  “Give me your burden, son,” Ruddy pleaded quietly, compassionately. “I can understand. Trust me. You’re too much alone.”

  “I want to be alone,” Tommy sobbed.

  “No. I’m going to be with you—”

  “Stop, Dad,” the boy hissed through his teeth.

  “I won’t stop until you talk to me,” Ruddy said, squeezing his arm about his son’s shoulder. Experience had taught him that this personal, physical touching was a good art in extract-ing a confession. It helped to divert the resistance of the over-burdened heart. “Talk, Tommy.”

  Then Tommy could not speak, for his throat was racked with sobs as he gasped for breath. Ruddy waited, holding him, knowing that he had won but feeling somehow fearful of his victory.