Spencerville

  Keith smiled.

  Her maiden name . . . ? Prentis, correct?

  Yes. Annie.

  Yes, Annie Prentis. Good family. Pastor Schenk at St. John's speaks highly of them. We all talk, you know. Even the priests at Immaculate Conception. The ecumenical council meets monthly, and, after the business is done, we gossip terribly. We never use names unless it's absolutely necessary, and nothing leaves that room. But one hears things.

  I can well imagine. Keith realized that Pastor Wilkes sat on a joint board similar to the one Keith had recently left. In fact, as Jeffrey suggested, Pastor Wilkes was privy to great quantities of intelligence information that would rival anything that Police Chief Baxter had in his files.

  Wilkes added, Our purpose is not idle gossip. We want to help, to try to head off divorces, to counsel young people who've gone astray, to keep temptation from men and women, and vice versa. In short, to save souls.

  That's very admirable.

  That's my job. Oh, I know what you're thinking. You think Spencerville has become the village of the damned. Well, most people here are good, God-fearing Christians. But many people have strayed. It's no different in other communities, I'd like you to come to church this Sunday, then join us afterward for tea and fellowship.

  Perhaps I will. But you know you're preaching to the converted. You should reach out to the others.

  They know where we are.

  Keith wanted to be gone before the meeting broke up, so he said, Well, thank you for rescuing me from the law.

  But Pastor Wilkes took no notice of Keith's wanting to leave, and he said, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter are having some difficulties, as you may know. Pastor Schenk is counseling Mrs. Baxter.

  What is that to me?

  Someone saw you speaking to her downtown.

  Pastor, this may be a small town, but an unmarried gentleman may speak to a married woman in public.

  Don't lecture me, young man. I'm trying to help you.

  I appreciate—

  Let me be blunt. Thou shalt not covet they neighbor's wife.

  This did not completely take Keith by surprise. He replied, And I would advise you, Pastor, to tell Pastor Schenk to remind Mr. Baxter of the adultery commandment.

  We all know about Mr. Baxter. What I'm telling you . . . I shouldn't reveal this confidence, but perhaps you already know that Mrs. Baxter is very taken with you.

  This was the best news that Keith had heard in weeks, and he considered several replies, including not replying, but said, We've corresponded over the years, and she's never indicated that to me. She's done nothing wrong.

  That depends on how you view a married woman writing her former . . . boyfriend.

  She's done nothing wrong. If there were any improprieties, they came from me.

  That's very noble of you, Mr. Landry. I know you think I'm being very old-fashioned, and I thank you for humoring me.

  I'm not humoring you, I'm listening to you, and I understand your position and your concern. I assure you my relationship with Mrs. Baxter has been strictly platonic.

  Well, see if you can be the strong one and keep it that way.

  Keith looked at Pastor Wilkes and, against his better judgment, or perhaps because he had to tell someone, he said, To be honest with you, Pastor, the spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak.

  Pastor Wilkes seemed momentarily speechless, then said, I appreciate your honesty. He added, And pleased you remember scripture.

  Keith stood and said, I should be going.

  Pastor Wilkes took his cane and stood also. He walked Keith to the door, they went out onto the porch, and Keith saw that the meeting was still in progress. He wondered how many witnesses Gail and Jeffrey had assembled to confess to their dealings and intercourse with the devil. Keith turned back to Pastor Wilkes and said, Apparently you knew more about me than you indicated when I sat down.

  Yes, but I didn't know if you were the type of man I could talk to. I saw that you were, and I gave you unsolicited advice and information. I hope you're not offended by the advice and that you keep the information to yourself.

  I'm not offended, and I'll keep this conversation to myself. But I am concerned that people are talking about me.

  Mr. Landry, you came home to a small town that is very troubled, and ironically, one of our problems, the problem of Mr. Baxter as public official and as husband, has become your problem. But don't let it be.

  Why not? Why should I do less than the people in that church?

  You know very well why. Examine your motives, and consider the consequences of your actions.

  Pastor, since I left Spencerville, I've served as a military officer in various capacities, and all of those capacities had life-and-death consequences for me, my colleagues, and, between us, for this nation.

  Then you don't need a sermon from a country preacher.

  But I appreciate your concern.

  Pastor Wilkes put his hand on Keith's shoulder and looked him in the eye. I like you. I don't want to see anything happen to you.

  Me, neither. But if something does happen, will you see to the arrangements here at St. James?

  Yes . . . of course. Pastor Wilkes took Keith's arm and said, Let me walk you to your car. Help me down the steps. As they walked, Wilkes said, Keith . . . may I call you Keith?

  Of course.

  I know that something is going on between you and Annie Baxter, and, to be quite honest, I'm not totally opposed to it. But you must go about it the right way, or it will never be right for either of you.

  Keith replied, I'm still not admitting to coveting my neighbor's wife, Pastor. But I'm listening.

  Good. Listen, and forget where you heard this. He said, She, the woman in question, is in an unhappy and unhealthy marriage, according to her pastoral counselor. Her husband is an adulterer and a verbally abusive man. I may be from the old school, but I listen to the young pastors, and I'm convinced that she has to leave that marriage before it becomes dangerous. He's become enraged at the suggestion of counseling, and neither the pastoral counselor nor the wife in question sees any hope for a change.

  Keith did not reply. He found his car and stood beside it.

  Pastor Wilkes continued, Divorce is acceptable under these circumstances. After her divorce, she is free to do whatever she wishes. You, Mr. Landry, must be patient and must not become part of the problem. This is a good woman, and I don't want to see her hurt.

  Both men stood in the dark, a faint light coming from the church windows casting shadows over the gravestones. Keith said, Neither do I.

  Mr. Landry, I'm sure your intentions are honorable, but the only honorable thing you can do now is to break off any contact with her. Things will work themselves out with God's help.

  And without my help.

  Precisely. He asked, Do you or do you not intend to stay here to live?

  I did, but I'm not certain now.

  I think your presence here is fuel to the fire. Can you go somewhere for a while? No doubt, your parents would like to see you.

  Keith smiled. Are you running me out of town?

  I'm suggesting that if you leave, I can see a happy ending for both of you. If you stay, I see only disaster.

  Apparently, he and Pastor Wilkes had reached the same conclusion independently of each other. Keith said, I didn't think you were going to advise me on how to win another man's wife. I thought I was going to get hellfire and brimstone.

  That's the fundamentalist church down the road. Here we do love and compassion. Will I see you Sunday?

  Perhaps. Goodnight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Keith pulled away from the church. Obviously, he thought, there was nothing simple about a simple rural community. In fact, life was simpler in the big city. Here, they cared about your soul and made you think about it, too, and that really got complicated.

  Keith drove along the dark country road. He knew that the police could stop him anytime, anyplace, on any pretext, and he'd resigned
himself to that. He'd been in the hands of the police in other countries, and he knew the drill, knew when they just wanted to scare you and when they intended to knock you around. He'd never had the experience of being really tortured and obviously hadn't faced a firing squad, though there was one time in Burma, years ago, when he knew they were talking about it.

  Being a veteran of a few arrests, he couldn't imagine that the Spencerville police station could hold many terrors for him, but you never knew what they had on their minds until you got there and saw how they were acting. A more unsettling scenario than the unlikely possibility of dying in police custody was the more likely possibility of dying trying to escape arrest, which was far more common in the civilized countries. Keith didn't imagine that there'd be much of an inquiry if he was shot on a country road, especially if the police put a weapon in his hands after he was dead. But they'd have to supply their own weapon to plant, because he didn't have his with him, though he wished he did.

  But was this police force that far down the road toward criminality and viciousness? He thought not, but Cliff Baxter certainly was, especially after being baited by Keith Landry.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror but didn't see any headlights. He turned onto a series of farm roads and took an indirect way back to his house. The bottom line, though, was that there was only one road that passed his farm and one way in. If they were at all bright, they'd simply wait for him at either end of that road.

  As he drove, he thought about what he'd heard in the church and in the parsonage, not to mention what happened outside. It all came down to Cliff Baxter, this sort of evil fog that covered the once sunny and happy countryside.

  Enter the hero, the savior. No. Exit the hero. Everyone here will get what they deserve, for better or worse. Wilkes was right. Leave it to God, or to Annie, or to the Porters, whoever acted first. Do not get ego-involved in this.

  Here's the question, Landry—if Annie were not the wife of Cliff Baxter, would you take on this fight in the interest of justice?

  Well, he thought, he'd done that often enough, though he'd gotten paid for it. But there wasn't enough money involved for the risks he'd taken. Obviously, he'd been motivated by patriotism and a sense of justice. But when that waned, he'd been motivated by a selfish desire for adventure and career advancement, and that wasn't enough. Here, in Spencerville, he found he could accomplish several objectives with one act: By killing Baxter, he could do the town and himself a favor, free Annie, and then perhaps have Annie. But that didn't seem like the right thing for the right reasons, no matter how he dissected it.

  He found himself on the road that led to Route 28, his road. Rather than get onto 28, he swung the Blazer off the road and followed a dirt tractor path that crossed the Muller farm through the cornfields. He put the Blazer into four-wheel drive and navigated by the dashboard compass, eventually making his way onto his property, which was planted with the Mullers' corn, and within ten minutes, he came out into the clearing of his own farmyard near the barn.

  He shut off his headlights, turned toward the house, and parked near the back door.

  Keith got out, unlocked the door, and went into the dark kitchen. Feeling both foolish and angry, he left the lights off and listened. He knew he wouldn't be doing much night driving anymore, and if he did, he'd take the Glock or the M-16 with him.

  He considered going upstairs and getting his pistol, but his instincts told him it was safe, or if it wasn't, he'd be better off here in the kitchen, near the door. He opened the refrigerator and got a beer.

  So, should I turn the other cheek and leave, as Wilkes suggested? But this was not what his life had been about.

  He opened the beer and, still standing, took a long drink. Or do I stalk Baxter instead of the other way around? I catch him coming out of one of his girlfriends' houses and cut his throat. A little wet stuff, one more time. Yeah, people think I did it, but there're a thousand other suspects, and no one's going to look too closely at it.

  Sounded good, but that left a widow and two fatherless children, and maybe you didn't kill a man for being a bad husband, a corrupt cop, and a bully. But why not? I've killed better men for less reason.

  He finished the beer and got himself another one. No, I can't murder the son-of-a-bitch. I just can't do it. So I have to leave. He went to the kitchen table and, by the faint light from the back door and window, he looked for the letter he'd left on the table, but didn't see it. He turned on the light hanging over the table and searched the chairs and the floor, but the letter was gone.

  Alert now, he shut off the light and put the beer can down. He listened, but there was no sound. It occurred to him that Aunt Betty or any of that crowd may have come by to clean or deliver food. They'd seen the letter, took it, and mailed it. But that didn't seem likely.

  If there was anyone still in the house, they knew he was there. He could forget about the guns upstairs, because even if he made it that far, the guns wouldn't be there any longer.

  He moved quietly toward the back door and put his hand on the knob.

  He heard a familiar squeak from the direction of the living room, then heard it again. He turned from the back door, went into the hallway, which was empty, and entered the living room, where the constant squeak came from. He turned on the floor lamp and said, How long have you been here?

  About an hour.

  How did you get in?

  The key was in the toolshed, under the workbench, where it's been for a hundred years.

  He looked at her, sitting in the rocker, wearing jeans and a pullover. The letter was in her lap.

  She said, I thought you'd be home, but you weren't, and I almost left, then I remembered the key, and I decided to surprise you.

  I'm surprised. But somehow he'd known it was her in the living room.

  Do you mind that I came into the house?

  No.

  It still feels like my second home.

  Keith had the distinct feeling this was not real, that it was a dream, and he tried to remember when he'd gone to sleep.

  She asked, Are you alone?

  Yes.

  I thought I heard you talking in the kitchen, so I just sat here, quiet as a mouse.

  I'm alone. I talk to myself. Where's your car?

  In the barn.

  Good thinking. Where is Mr. Baxter?

  At a city council meeting.

  And where are you?

  At Aunt Louise's.

  'I see . . . did you hear what I was saying? I could only hear the tone. Are you angry about something? No, I just argue with myself.

  Who won? 'The good angel.

  But you looked troubled. That's because the good angel won.

  She smiled. Well, I argued with myself about coming here. This K not a chance meeting on the street.

  No, it's not.

  She held up the letter. It was addressed to me, so . . .

  Yes, that's all right. Saved me a stamp.

  She stood and came toward him. And, yes, I do understand. You're right. We can't . . . you remember that poem we both liked? Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.' She added, I think we liked it because we knew we were going to be star-crossed lovers, and that poem was our comfort . . . She hesitated, then leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek, saying, Good-bye, darling. She walked past him and into the hallway.

  He heard her go into the kitchen and heard the back door open and close. Be strong, be noble, be brave. But don't be a complete idiot. He turned and moved quickly into the kitchen as the screen door shut. Wait!

  She turned as he came out the door and she said, No, Keith. Please. You're right. This won't work. We can't . . . it's too complicated . . . we've been fooling ourselves—

  No, listen . . . we have to . . . we need to understand . . . I have to know what happened . . . I mean . . . He couldn't find any of the words he wanted or needed, then said,
Annie, we're not going to just walk away again.

  She took a deep breath and said, I can't stay here. I mean outside.

  Come in. Please.

  She thought a moment, then came back into the kitchen.

  He said, Can you stay awhile?

  Yes, all right . . . we'll finally have that cup of coffee. Where's the pot?

  I don't want coffee. I need a drink. He turned on the small light over the sink, went to the cupboard, and took his bottle of Scotch down. Want one?

  No, and neither do you.

  Right. He put the bottle back. You make me nervous.

  You're nervous? I can hear my heart beating, and my knees are shaking.

  Me, too. Do you want to sit?

  No.

  Well . . . look, I know the risk you took coming here—

  I took two risks, Keith. One, that I wasn't followed, the other, that I wouldn't get my heart broken. No, I'm sorry, I can't put that on you.

  Don't be sorry. I'm glad you came. I'm more than glad. Look, I wrote that letter—

  Don't explain. I understand. Really.

  They stood looking at each other across the kitchen, then Keith said, This is not the way I pictured this.

  How did you picture it?

  He hesitated, then walked to her and took her in his arms. Like this.

  They embraced and kissed, and he remembered exactly how she felt in his arms, how she smelled, how she tasted, and how her mouth and body moved against his.

  She pulled away, then buried her face in his shoulder. She was crying, he realized, her body trembled, then shook convulsively. She couldn't stop crying, and he didn't know what to do, but he held her close against him.

  Finally, she backed away and pulled a tissue out of her jeans, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then laughed. Oh, God . . . look at me . . . I knew this would happen . . . don't laugh at me.

  I'm not laughing. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her cheeks. My God, you're beautiful.

  Sure. My nose is running. She wiped her nose, then looked up at him. Well . . . She cleared her throat. Well, Mr. Landry, I enjoyed seeing you again. Will you walk me to my car?