Bad Desire (45 page)

On the sixth floor of City Hall, the small square window stood open, rotated to its full axis, and through it, the lenses of Slater's binoculars scanned the city. Slowly, he tilted the glasses upward, sweeping over the roofs of houses until, in the deep distance, he fastened upon the sleek red blur of the Mazda making its way into town. Right on time, he thought.

Faith came to a stop and proceeded across the intersection. At 9:26, he watched the small red car idle in front of the St. Pius chancery while a large basket of what appeared to be clean laundry was loaded into the trunk. Scarcely a minute later, the car pulled away and vanished from sight in the dense foliage that lined the streets.

Slater started the stopwatch. Now, he would have a twelve-minute wait before the car reached the high, curving altitudes of the old coastal highway. The door to his private washroom was locked; the water in the sink was running to mask any incidental noise. He dampened the end of a towel in the cold water, wrung it out and wiped his face, all the time listening for even the slightest movement outside his door. But there was nothing. He glanced at the stopwatch. Nine and a half minutes remained. Putting the towel on the rack, he waited. When there were three minutes remaining, he took up the transmitter with its small black button and leveled it out the opened window. And waited. The red Mazda, shooting toward incandescence, was nowhere in sight, as planned.

Faith didn't know if she saved any time by taking the shortcut through Marengo Park, but it always seemed like it and she was trying to be prompt with her errands this morning. When she came to the intersection of Park and Logan Avenue and turned the corner, she thought all was lost. A backhoe was digging out one entire section of the street. “Oh, no,” she groaned, slapping the steering wheel and casting about for some means of escape. Faith might have been delayed indefinitely if the policeman on duty hadn't recognized her and motioned her around the yellow barricades.

She was zipping past the high school when, to her surprise, she saw Sheila walking across the lawn with half a dozen of her friends, and she braked behind the white Karmann Ghia. “Sheila!” she called, “Sheila, over here!”

“Oh, hi, Faith!” Sheila shouted, waving good-bye to the other girls. She jogged to the side of the car. “We just got out of cheerleading practice. You know, we've got our first game in a couple weeks.”

“You must've gotten out early. I thought you said you'd be tied up until noon.”

“Yeah, but I've got to come back this evening,” Sheila said. “So what're you doing here?”

“Just running some things out to the resettlement camp. Want to come along?” Faith scooped up an armful of things from the passenger seat and dumped them into the rear.

“But—what about my car?”

“Oh, leave it. We'll pick it up later.”

As soon as Sheila had closed the gleaming red door behind her, the Mazda whipped onto the street. Faith looked around at her and smiled. “I'm glad you decided to come,” she said. They drove past the sign that read
TO ELLINGTON BEACH
and then made a right-hand turn onto the coastal highway, heading north. “I always take the old highway,” Faith told her. “There's a place you've got to see.”

Slater tried to ignore the slow passage of time. He waited, poised at the small window of his private bathroom. She's got to be up there by now, he thought. The minutes continued to fall away on the stopwatch. There were two minutes left. One—

I can't do this. I can't do it again. He lost his nerve. He let the needle sweep past its mark, his hands sweating and unsteady. It still wasn't too late, not yet. He put the transmitter down and wiped his hands on the towel and took it up again. He was thirty-five seconds past the time he'd set for himself. Forty-five seconds. It was getting away from him.

Now
. It had to be now.

Slater hit the button.

Far in the hills to the north, he saw the blinding splinter of light. It was followed immediately by a small, white puff of smoke that marked the sky and then, like vapor, disappeared.

It was done. In seconds, it was over.

The red Mazda and his wife were no more.

Thirty-five minutes had passed and still he heard nothing.

The conference room grew more crowded. The opening and closing of briefcases, the shuffling of papers, the incessant salutations and clearing of throats—it had subsided to an even, low-level hum. Slater couldn't look at his watch, for fear of someone noticing. He found it almost unbearable to sit quietly and wait—to wait for the news to arrive. No matter how absurd it was or how careful he had been, he always half-expected the police to appear at any second to place him under arrest. This morning would be yet another test of will, of poise. Just get through it, he kept thinking, then everything will take care of itself. He studied the edge of the notebook opened before him and slowly went over in his mind every move he would have to make.

The meeting got under way. Childers, the county commissioner, launched into his report. His words, his obvious concern for the problems of the city, were irrelevant to Slater. It was as if, now that he had done what had to be done, everything else had been reduced to triviality. But he couldn't let down his guard. He knew that his performance had only begun; that his life depended on how persuasive he could be.

Several minutes had gone by when he heard the door open and Abigail's rapid, secretive footsteps cross the room. Okay. Slater leaned his head toward her confidentially, as he always did in the presence of others. She put her hand on his shoulder and bent close, whispering, her lips nearly grazing his ear. “There's been an accident,” she said. “Mr. Slater, it's your wife; it's her car.” He drew back, searching her face only a few inches above his own. Frowning, he muttered, “But she's all right … isn't she?” He felt strangely distanced from his secretary, as if he were soaring above the room.

“Oh … I don't think they know for sure. You see—her car—it was another bomb.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but to anyone who saw him, he seemed unable to make a sound. Do this right, he thought. His face reflected waves of disbelief like a man drowning in deep water.

“A bomb?”

Overhearing him, two of the men at the table pushed back hesitantly, got up and left the room. Slater knew what they were doing. They would make calls and return with up-to-the-minute details.

Abigail's hand still rested on his shoulder; her voice was beginning to break. “Oh, Mr. Slater,” she said, “oh, Mr. Slater.” He stood, fighting for balance, as if overwhelmed by the ominous news she was giving him about his wife.

Done. It was done! After a few seconds, he pretended to recover his voice. “But where did it happen?”

“She was on the old coastal highway. Very near the place called Mama Emilia's.” Abigail gripped his shoulder in support. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

He nodded. Dizziness, he thought—he did, in fact, feel dizzy. “Yes,” he said, his voice rising, feigning outrage and grief, “but have we all gone out of our minds?” Even to him, his voice sounded like someone else's, someone who was losing control. “But what … happened? How the hell could this happen?”

One of the men beside him said quietly, “Easy, Henry, take it easy. You're only making things worse.”

I've got to be careful, he thought. Play it safe—one part shock, one part grief. He nodded his head. This pretense was grim work; he was now a thoroughly pale and shaken man. “I've got to go there,” he muttered. “I've got to get out there.”

“I've arranged for a police escort,” Abigail said. “They'll be here any second.” Around him was deep silence; he was surrounded by a sea of horrified, uncomprehending faces. He could tell that the men had heard it all, which, of course, was exactly how he had imagined it happening. The word that Faith Slater had been killed by a bomb had spilled throughout the meeting room. Even more important, the men accepted the grave reality of yet another bombing without a trace of suspicion; if there was any sentiment in the air, it was one of hopeless pity for a man who bravely continued to cling to hope.

The air of urgency and tension increased with the arrival of the police. Guards came in. Slater saw two uniformed policemen enter the room and take up places inside the door. Through the now-crowded doorway, he glimpsed men with cameras—the press had arrived. As expected.

He was suddenly up on his feet. He wanted to seem as if he were dazed, a little lost. He continued to act as though he couldn't absorb the news. His two colleagues, who'd left minutes before, returned with further information. “Henry, don't try to go out there. Traffic's backed up both ways, and they're having a hell of a time getting emergency crews through. The coroner had to take a helicopter—and there's a stiff head wind off those cliffs. The pilot says he won't do it again.”

Slater shook his head; all he said was, “I've got to.”

“But there's nothing you can do.”

Abigail said, “I'd like to come with you, Mr. Slater, if you don't mind. You shouldn't be alone at a time like this.” With a nod he indicated his acceptance. He saw one of the policemen approaching to escort him out, and he took up his briefcase and moved forward through the hushed room.

Quickly, they went out, Abigail at his side, patrolmen front and back, a sergeant in the lead. Slater could feel the tension in the patrolmen. Aware of the barrage of flashbulbs, Slater lowered his head and put his arm out as though to fend them off. “Clear the area,” the officer called. “Clear the area.” The five of them were riding down in the elevator and moving out through the lobby.

The day was flowing like a mighty river, carrying him with it. The course he had set for himself could not be altered, and it seemed to him that it would go on forever. He told himself the worst of it was over. They were outside, getting into the second of the three waiting patrol cars. Slater climbed in the backseat, where the windows were covered with heavy-duty mesh wire. “Where's my car,” he asked, as if in a daze.

“Don't concern yourself, Mayor. We'll have one of the men bring it out to your house.”

Church bells rang, a loud jubilation that horrified him. From the backseat, he handed his car key to the officer in charge. It was a beautiful day, still soft and warm, the sky so blue it seemed purple, a smell of orchids in the air.

“You all right, Mr. Slater?” asked the patrolman behind the wheel.

“Let's go,” he said and the three cars moved forward, red lights twirling, sirens signaling their departure. Along the route, silent policemen waved them on. Slater looked back and saw two police cruisers now following along behind. Here and there, small crowds gathered—there were more people now, filling up the sidewalks as though they'd been expecting him. Among them he glimpsed a girl wearing shorts—long, beautiful legs. He thought for a moment it was Sheila, but he couldn't see her face.
Sheila
.

And Abigail was talking to him, telling him he shouldn't be going out there. “Mr. Slater, the car's in a ravine about seventy-five feet down the side of the cliff. They can't get to—can't do anything until they bring the car up. It could take all day. Besides I wonder if she would want you to see her this way.”

He waited an appropriate amount of time before answering her. “All right,” he said weakly. “Then take me home. I'll wait there. But will you go back to the office and take the calls?”

“Yes, of course.”

A small crowd of sightseers and a camera crew were waiting at the end of Slater's driveway by the time the patrolman waved the motorcade through. He allowed Abigail to hug him before he stumbled from the patrol car. “Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you?” she asked, handing him his briefcase.

“No,” he said. “I just want to be by myself.”

Slater could smell decay of leaves—a resiny, sweet rottenness—as he crossed the brick driveway, went up the walk. Head bowed, he stepped up to the veranda. Then he heard what he had been waiting for—the sound of the patrol car pulling away. He could hear the telephone ringing behind the front door as he unlocked it.
Safe. I'm safe
. Inside, he kicked the door shut and flipped the lock.

The gloom at the front of the house was relieved by light pouring in from the back balconies. Seeing that a second patrol car was now parked at the far end of his drive to keep the crowd back, Slater pulled the drapes closed on the large front windows.

How do I look? he wondered.

He moved to the long pier glass and stared at his face. Okay, okay. Despite the pretense of grief, he hadn't changed at all. His gray eyes were thoughtful, serious, his eyebrows brooded forbiddingly. He told himself that he'd been under a tremendous strain. Now all that would end.

He took off his suit jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves and cleared his throat, “Anybody here?” he called. No one answered. Sheila? But no: he knew she had gone out for the day. Still, Sheila and the evening to come lingered in his thoughts.

All at once, the telephone rang again. The noise ran jarringly through the silent rooms. Christ, he said to himself and shuddered. It's enough to give you heart failure. He didn't want to deal with all the condolences, not yet, anyhow. Slater let it ring until it stopped, then he turned on the answering machine.

His feeling of liberation was enormous. He felt at ease and unburdened, expansive, benign. The silence enveloped him. He pulled off his tie and threw it on the sofa. The peacefulness of the house, the fulfillment of a lifetime. It's over, he thought,
I've done it!
This is my life now … the life I created. For you, Sheila. For you.

He went to the recessed bookshelves at the end of the room and pushed the spine of
David Copperfield
. The hydraulics wheezed while the bar rose and arranged itself before him. On the third finger of his left hand, in place of a wedding band, he wore the expensive, square-cut diamond ring. It gave off brilliant splinters of light. With his right-hand fingers, he gave the ring a few twists for good luck.