Simple (13 page)

After a while he caught himself in an aborted snore. Christopher wriggled out of his arms. He felt empty for a while but wrapped his arms around his own body until sleep came again.

It got to be six o'clock, in and out of sleep. The political bosses hammered directions at him in his dreams. It was like being in a roomful of fathers. Cassie entered and exited the room; for some reason she was serving food, like a waitress. She seemed serious about doing the job well. He kept wanting to say something to her, but the others didn't notice her at all.

When he woke again, it was to Monica saying, “I hate to wake you, but dinner is on soon. And you're going to have a hell of a night tonight if you keep sleeping the day away.”

He stretched out an arm for her to pull him up off the chaise.

*   *   *

FREDDIE OWNS TWO
vehicles—her Dodge truck for work and her little Sebring.

“Let me use your Sebring today,” he had said, back in bed in the morning.

“Why?”

“Because I want to see how it rides. I might want to buy one.”

“Don't kid me.”

“I'm not. There's some pressure on me to buy American. I don't care. It's just a car. If it breaks down, I'll rent some other one.”

“But there might not
be
any more Sebrings. It's an endangered species.”

“Okay, make me beg you.”

“Fine. Take it.”

“You can drive mine. If you're not in the truck.”

“I'm in the truck until about one. Then I need to shower and go shopping.”

“So use mine for shopping.”

“Where are you going?”

“Harrisburg.”

“This murder?”

“Among other things.”

“And you won't be—” She did some pantomimed math. “No, of course you won't be back by afternoon.”

So he took the Sebring and he thought, Why can't she be a little stupider? Because he felt he'd better put on four hundred miles total or she might notice he came up short. Well, it could be worse. He had his three phones charged up. He could talk to whomever he had to talk to all day long.

The car definitely was American. Loose, cheap, cheerful, and pretending the road wasn't really there and bumpy, not at all like the tight European cars that moved almost arthritically, pridefully. It was all falling to shit, though, all the companies were merging and Europe was getting more American and possibly a little bit of vice versa was going on. But the direction was almost always toward the cheap, the mediocre.

He stopped only for gas, not for anything else. He skipped the turnpike so there would be no tolls to account for. He took Route 22 instead toward Blanchard, a dot in the center of Pennsylvania. It was where she had lived. Population 756. Did it excuse her dumbness? There must have been some worldliness in that town somewhere. Or a television. Or a movie theater. Or a book. It seemed somehow appropriate to go in that direction, where she'd lived, though he couldn't explain it. Not that he'd go the whole way. He'd stop short. Find a country road, some woods.

Funeral in Millheim, Pa. To go or not to go. Probably he'll get orders to go in order to keep an eye on Connolly.

Undo the thing with Freddie. Unlatch. Say work, work, work.

Freddie was nice. Neat and clean. Organized. Big and American and sexy and friendly. That was Freddie. That was Freddie.

His phone was not ringing. One big collective breath was being held all through the party. It would all be okay. He knew how to work it.

After nearly two hours he took an exit. A small country road. Shit. Seen. Passed a guy with a tractor. He had to pretend to be looking at a map on the passenger seat, so no wave of hello would be necessary. Kept going. Found another dirt road. Chose it. Nestled his car into a thicket. Dug with his hands and one of the large spoons from Freddie's kitchen drawer. Then unearthed the paper bag from his briefcase. It held plastic gloves and her wallet and her phone. He put the plastic gloves on. Not able to help himself, he looked inside the wallet again. Driver's license. Photos of her family. God, four beautiful girls. One going down into the dirt.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. He felt his stomach rising and hurried to a different patch of ground to empty it. He wiped his mouth and leaned against a tree.

When he returned to the hole in the ground, he made sure the cell phone was off and dropped it into the grave. He took the cash out of the wallet, a mere thirty-six dollars, and stuffed it in his pocket. Lunch some day. Or give it to someone. Then he made himself drop the wallet into the hole. And he covered everything up.

After he was finished patting down the ground, he imagined a scenario in which he needed the wallet again—or the pictures. He hoped not, but he had to mark the little grave in some way. He studied the trees, then counted his steps to the road where his car was. He used the spoon, scraping and scraping to nick a tree at the edge of the property. Then he retraced his steps, checking his count. The same. He nicked the tree closest to the hole he'd dug. And one more time walked to the car, counting. Good, good. He turned the car around and studied the road carefully, set the trip odometer to zero, and drove out to the dirt road where he'd seen the man driving a tractor. Ha, a name, Shell Pond Road. He could find it again if he needed to. The odometer read 1.7 miles.

He was more careful than Connolly could ever be. Smarter, too. Even better with the ladies—he got away and left them happy after all.

Once he was sure he could return in his sleep, he drove for a while aimlessly, calming himself. When he noted that he'd put enough miles on the car for a trip to Harrisburg, he got back on the same roads he used to come here.

The afternoon was beautiful. Gorgeous.

The money. Might hold prints. He stopped at a gas station that had a bathroom. He tested the toilet to be sure it flushed well. Then he got rid of the money in one quick flush, waited, and when nothing came back up started to throw in the gloves. No. Too dangerous. If there was a clog, someone might remember seeing him. He carried them with him in the brown paper bag for another few miles until he saw a roadside rest stop with a large garbage can. He tossed the bag as if just dumping the remnants and wraps of his lunch. Nobody saw him. Nobody was looking.

Now he had to get his own car back and unwrap himself from Freddie tonight.

*   *   *

FOR ONCE THE CHILDREN
are at their mother's house and Marina can have time, precious time. She's going to be teaching in a week, not much, just one course as an adjunct, Acting I, but there's talk that she'll be acting in a production at Pitt as well and coaching the young actors. The butterflies that have been dormant for so long fly crazily at the thought of these upcoming activities. Today, though, tonight, is still vacation, whether Richard knows it or not. He went to work today. She did laundry, unpacking, and then sat in the backyard, polishing her nails, reading, waiting.

At six she hears a series of noises, doors opening and closing, keys dropping, as he makes his way through the house and toward her. “Hey,” she says.

He comes out back, looking curious. “What time is it?” He looks at his watch as if it might be broken.

“Because I'm not in the kitchen?”

“I guess,” he answers a little sheepishly. “No good smells to greet me.”

“That's because we're eating out.”

“Oh. Fine.” He looks all juiced up, alert, not tired at all.

“You had a good day?”

“I felt useful.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“A little.” He sat, looked to see if any neighbors were in their yards, and continued in a low voice to tell her of some of the doubts he had about last night's arrest. She listened carefully, admiring him for the care he put into the job even while she resented the voluntary time away from her. “I just want to be sure he doesn't go to Rockview if he didn't do it.”

She shuddered. The hanging, the chair, the needle—they all were wrong, violent, the latter improvements not improvements at all. Yet that young woman had suffered a terrible death, as bad as the noose, the chair, the needle could give her killer, possibly worse with the fear and panic. Shakespeare would say all that was behind her now, all that struggling. Over and over he prized the idea of rest. He must have been an insomniac.

“Where are we going?” her husband asked curiously.

“We're having a date. I'd be happy with Casbah for scaling up. Or Tessaro's. Even Del's if we're going down and dirty.”

She watched him consider. Shower and clean shirt? Or well-worn polo and jeans? He was undoing his tie. She let him off the hook. “Del's is fine so long as we're together.”

Family togetherness had been the goal in Cape Cod. Neither one of them would have considered leaving the kids in Truro with a takeout of fish sandwiches so that they could go to an intimate dinner. But that left tonight and tomorrow night.

She took his hands, smoothed her thumb along his skin. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course.”

They needed a good fight. This was bad, thanking him for noticing her for a few minutes.

*   *   *

POTOCKI AND GREER
both stayed late, typing reports, keeping each other company. The clocks ticked, phones stopped ringing, and they were still there.

“Well,” Potocki said as they finally walked to their cars, “I'm ready to set a date.” Colleen squinted at him. “You know what I'm saying.”

She did. They had to make a decision. Every day was fraught with wanting to touch each other. “After this case,” she said. “Soon as we're done with Cassie Price, we'll tell Boss to repartner us and we'll—”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“This is great. We should celebrate. Tonight.”

She had to laugh. She wasn't that good at saying no under normal circumstances, and they'd been building up to this conclusion for a while.

“Come on,” he said. “We have control.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Dinner somewhere.”

“A work dinner. Something, you know, low profile. We can talk about the case. So no fault, no guilt.” She sure didn't feel like going home and eating alone, and she liked Potocki so much it scared her.

“Two cars.” He shook his head. “We are wasteful.”

“I know.”

But they stood in the lot for a moment and didn't revise the plan. “Okay, what's your pleasure?”

“Del's. I think Del's.”

“Del's it is.”

*   *   *

A VOICE ON THE
loudspeaker says there is trouble in the kitchen and trays are going to be late. Cal thought he wouldn't want dinner, but his stomach is growling, so when the voice on the loudspeaker says, “Trays up,” he engages in a short battle with himself, then descends the stairs. He puts himself in line. The guy with the dreads that are partly braids looks frustrated, trying to catch up with him and missing. Levon. Each tray holds meat loaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, cake. His mother would say that's not a summer meal. She talked about light foods and heavy foods, not that he expects the prison cooks to care about any of that. Luckily he has a strong stomach. He sits down at the first empty table he sees, and soon after, three black guys join him. The first one to speak is a big guy, bald. “Somebody told us you might be looking for something sweet?”

A panic hits him. What does that mean? What did he do to make the guy ask? He tries hard to think of something to say. The long preparation for a reply seems unbearable to him. He tells himself, Don't take any shit. If you take it now …

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” He takes a piece of cake off the one guy's plate. The three guys look surprised. Then one says, “You ain't that dumb.”

“It was a joke,” he says. “Here.” He puts the cake back.

“You killed that girl,” says a third man.

He knows they watch TV all day. He's not sure about newspapers. But there are visitors, like his mother. The word must have spread fast about him. “They say so.”

“They got evidence?”

“They must.”

“Then you have to prove how they got it, it was wrong. You know, illegal.”

This turn toward helpfulness from the third guy is confusing. Cal doesn't want to talk. He wants to eat his mushy meat loaf and go straight back to his cell.

“But only trouble is, this one ain't never going to live that long, says the second guy.”

The men snort and guffaw. He doesn't know how to answer. One moment they seem nice, the next minute not. How is he to know?

“Tell me something,” the first man asks. Big, bald-headed, and muscular. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“I'm part African American.”

“Don't try to shit me.”

“My grandmother.”

“And you think that buys you what?”

“Nothing at all. Only it was something you didn't know.” He shovels large portions of meat loaf plus potatoes into his mouth.

“You eat like you like it.”

He considers. “I don't hate it.”

“Want to know where it's better?”

“Sure.”

“‘Sure!' He's like fucking, ‘Sure!'”

“So tell me.”

“Somerset. State prison. I got a friend there. Sounds like you might be going there or someplace state. They get like the same kind of food, except better. Here we got Aramark. Them fuckers do hospitals, colleges, ballparks, and us. They must bid low like you wouldn't believe. You probably eating squirrel meat loaf. Horse meat loaf. But you might get that good stuff in State sometime soon.” The man laughed. “Or not. Heard some priest came to see you. Last rites perhaps?”

Cal looked at his food. He was sweating. They said he would not make it out alive. All the while he pretended he was not scared, and definitely willing to fight back.