She often thought that she was eccentric, as well as agoraphobic. She had even thought, more than once, that she was insane. It was an idea that she discounted because she knew precisely why she did what she did in her big house. She did it because her house was, after all, her world. She did it because the presence of real people made her nervous, because the world outside her house made her breathless and lightheaded.
~ * ~
"I was looking at snapshots," David Case explained, then glanced behind him at Karen Duffy and Christian Grieg as he led them to his study. "Snapshots," he repeated, and gave them a quivering smile.
"Snapshots," said Karen.
"Pictures of Anne?" Christian Grieg asked, although he knew the answer.
David turned his head, nodded a little, then they were at his study. He motioned with his hand toward two brown leather chairs. Karen and Christian sat in them. David sat behind his desk. "I didn’t want any visitors today," he said. "But I’m glad you’re here."
Karen said, "Christian was worried about you."
David smiled at that, as if pleased. He said, "I’m okay. I wasn’t. Before. But I am now." He lifted his pipe from the clear glass ashtray on his desk, fingered it for a moment and set it back in the ashtray. "I know where Anne is," he said.
Christian Grieg squirmed in his chair. He knew that he was squirming and he knew that David could see him squirm, but it was all right.
David chuckled. "You’re going to enjoy this, Christian," he said. "No need to be uncomfortable."
Karen Duffy felt suddenly ill at ease. She’d known David for several years, as long as she’d known Christian, and she had grown to like him immensely. There had been a period of a month or so, early on, when she had thought that he was simply another handsome, middle-aged man who was glib and whose tastes were impeccable but who had, ultimately, all the depth and character of a TV game show host. She had changed that opinion over time. She had found him to be a very private person, yes, but also very caring, a person whose passions and emotions ran very deep and fast, but who often chose to keep tight-lipped about himself and his feelings rather than burden other people. She saw this as strength, and now, looking at him, she sensed that he was going to let that strength ebb a little, that he was going to reveal his humanness, his passion. She wasn’t sure how she would react.
David looked at her now and said, "Have you heard of ‘the other side,’ Karen?"
She answered at once, nodding nervously, "Yes, I have."
And Christian sighed, "Oh, David, for heaven’s Sake . . .”
"Don’t!" David cut in. "Please don’t, Christian. Your skepticism is not welcome or appreciated."
Christian nodded sullenly. "I’m sorry."
David said, "That’s where Anne is." He paused. "She’s on the other side."
~ * ~
In his mind’s eye, Brian Fisher saw himself putting the telephone receiver back on the hook, getting up, leaving the apartment, going somewhere. Anywhere. He saw himself forgetting what had happened, after a long while, or, failing that, putting enough time and distance between himself and what had happened that it would be nothing more than a blur, an old movie out of focus. A decade would probably accomplish that, he thought. Two decades would surely accomplish it.
Then, though there had apparently been no ringing on the other end of the line, a male voice said, "Batavia Police Department, complaint desk," and Brian said at once—as if he were courtesy-bound to respond—"Hello, yes. My name is Brian Fisher." He could say no more.
"Go on," coaxed the male voice.
Brian said nothing.
"Could you state your name again, please," said the male voice.
Brian repeated his name but could say no more. "Is this an emergency, Mr. Fisher?"
"I don’t think so," Brian said.
"Then what is the nature of your complaint, sir?"
"I had a friend," Brian answered. "Her name was Anne." He paused, let the words pile up, then let them come spilling out. "Her name was Anne, she’s dead now, she was murdered, and I caused it." He waited. There was a moment’s silence. Then the male voice said, with more of a sense of urgency now, "That was Fisher,
F-I-S
-"
Brian hung up.
N
obody’s questioning the reality of your experience," said Christian Grieg.
David Case nodded from behind his desk. "That’s big of you, Christian." He tried a grin, found it uncomfortable. "How
can
you question it? You were
there
, for God’s sake!"
Christian leaned forward in the brown leather chair and clasped his hands. He said slowly, as if reminding David of something David had forgotten, "I wasn’t
there
, I was in the boat, sure. And I was in the hospital; I was in your room. But I wasn’t
there
, on the other side, with you."
Karen Duffy, trying hard not to sound peeved, said, "Please tell me what you’re talking about."
Christian glanced at her, then nodded at David and explained, "David had an . . . out-of-body experience—"
David interrupted. "That’s not technically correct. You’re talking about astral projection when you use that phrase and that’s not what happened to me. What happened to me, technically . . .” He sighed. "The experience I had was a death experience." Another uncomfortable grin appeared and quickly faded. He shook his head and looked at Karen. "I died. My heart stopped. I died." He paused. "And I went over to what is commonly called ‘the other side.’ "
Karen said nothing. She was confused. She looked from David to Christian and then back to David, who continued, "It was a boating accident. Christian and I and some friends were out on Oneida Lake. I fell overboard. I was drunk—I was getting drunk," he corrected, "and I went under. It was fifteen minutes before they fished me out—Christian and the others. That’s a long time." He was clearly having difficulty telling the story. He looked away often—at his desk, at the window. "That’s a long time," he repeated, as if to himself. "And while I was under . . . " He paused. When he continued, his mood and tone were more thoughtful. "It began then, while I was under. Classic stuff, really." He got his pipe from the glass ashtray on his desk, lost hold of it; it fell to the desktop and spilled a pinch of blackened tobacco. He stared at the spilled tobacco a moment, swept it into his hand and dumped it into the ashtray. "Classic stuff," he repeated. "And I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, Karen."
A hard thumping noise came from the window. The three people in the room looked over. The window was clear. David explained, "It’s birds. They fly into the window. I don’t know why." He got up, went to the window, looked down through it, glanced back. Christian and Karen still were seated. They were looking expectantly at him. "It’s a finch," he said and went back and sat at his desk.
"A finch?" Karen asked. "You mean it’s dead?"
Before David could answer, Christian said, "You could put up a bird silhouette, a hawk silhouette. That would keep them away from the window."
"I’ll do that," David said. He glanced at the window. "Anne told me the same thing. She had the same problem. She said a dozen birds flew into her window—the one in her kitchen; it’s a small window, in her kitchen, over the sink—and the birds flew into it when she was washing dishes. So she put up a silhouette. Yes, I think it was the silhouette of a hawk. A sparrow hawk." He stopped. He shook his head miserably. "Dammit, I miss her. Why would someone
do
that to her, Christian? I don’t know why anyone would
do
that to her! I’ve tried to figure it out and I can’t figure it out! You knew her, you both knew her, you knew her problem, and now there she is—she’s still at the morgue, she’s still at the damned morgue, and she has no home."
~ * ~
"I was protecting her," said Brian Fisher. It was a phrase he’d been practicing ever since his phone call to the police. He wanted to sound as true and as honest as he thought he was.
"Could we come in, please?" said one of the two detectives at his door. That detective was a middle-aged, balding, overweight man named Fred Collins; his eyes were dark brown, very large, and they bore an almost ludicrous sensitivity, considering his job. He spoke in a tone that was businesslike and reassuring at the same time, but it was clear from his unyielding presence and bearing that he was used to being obeyed. It was just what Brian Fisher thought he needed at that moment—someone to take over, someone to accept and acknowledge his sin and punish him for it so he could get on with the plans he had for himself.
The other detective said, "You called the station, Mr. Fisher?" That detective was shorter and thinner than Fred Collins, and his bearing was not as strong. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and green tie, and he stood a foot behind Fred Collins. His name was Leo Kenner.
Brian Fisher said, nodding, "I called the station." He moved to one side and gestured to indicate his apartment. "I made some coffee."
Collins and Kenner stepped in. Collins said, "No. Thank you. We would like to ask you some questions." He glanced appraisingly about the small room as he spoke. It was neat and scrupulously clean; there was the tang of disinfectant in the air. There were, Collins judged, hundreds of books—most of them hardcover—in three large bookcases made of cinder blocks and lengths of whitish pressboard. Each of these bookcases was at the center of its own beige wall. A large Andrew Wyeth print in a simple frame was displayed on one wall, near a window. The print was of a fence and fields as seen from inside a farmhouse. Collins thought it was static and melancholy. A white, four-drawer kneehole desk stood to the other side of the window. Fisher’s twin bed—a bright, multicolored quilt lay on it—and a small, mahogany chest of drawers were at the opposite end of the room. Lighting—dim—was provided by a brass, gooseneck floor lamp near the left side of the desk. The chair which apparently was used at the desk was beneath the window. Collins thought that Fisher had been sitting, looking out at the park.
The park, he saw, was alive now with children and their mothers. Collins could even hear them, faintly, through the closed window.
Brian gestured at the chair and said, "One of you can sit there."
"We’ll stand," Collins said.
Brian nodded expressionlessly, went and sat in the chair, looked up, hands clasped over his knees, and said, "I wanted to protect her. She needed that." His small, pale hands worked nervously together. He added, "I loved her." His squeaky, high tenor voice quivered. "And she was suffering."
Leo Kenner said, his tone brusque and efficient, "You’re talking about Anne Case?"
Brian nodded vigorously. "Anne, yes."
Collins and Kenner were standing a few feet in front of Brian. Kenner was to the right of and just behind Collins. He’d shoved his bony hands into his pants pockets and had cocked his head slightly. Collins had crossed his arms at his chest. Together, they formed an impenetrable wall.
Seeing this pose, Brian said, "I’m not going to go anywhere."
Collins said, "We’re only here to question you, Mr. Fisher."
"I killed her," Brian whispered, as if he were anticipating great pain but knew he’d be able to bear up under it. "I killed Anne Case. I’m confessing to that and I want to be punished."
Leo Kenner said, "Sir, how did you kill Anne Case?"
Brian’s thin pale lips parted in surprise. He looked from Kenner to Collins then back to Kenner. "You know that, you know that!" he whined. "I don’t have to tell you how I killed her. She’s dead." His hands worked furiously together. Outside, in the little park, a mother called sharply to her child, "Get off of that, now!" Brian lowered his head and looked at his hands. He saw that they were clasping and unclasping; his long thin fingers made the skin on the backs of his hands bright red. He unclasped them, stood abruptly, and faced the window that looked out on the park. "I killed her with a knife," he said. "I stabbed her a great number of times. I don’t know how many times but it was a great number. More than fifty." He swallowed noisily, turned only his head, said to Collins, "That’s right?"