Riders on the Storm (10 page)

“Donovan's cousin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why would Byrnes kill his meal ticket?”

“Because he's insane. Maybe Donovan pissed him off. You don't piss off Teddy Byrnes.”

Then it was his turn. He was so laid back he probably didn't need Valium for his colonoscopy. No problem, man. Just shove it right in there. I'm fine.

Everything he'd learned pointed to Will being the killer. He'd interviewed Anders (“By the way, he told me that he'd like to set you on fire and then drown you; I have to admit that the boy has a
temper.”) and Anders was home from seven o'clock to six thirty this morning when he woke up. His lady friend would testify to that. “That isn't necessarily a great alibi but nobody seems to have seen him in or around the crime scene. And believe me, with that car of his just about everybody would've noticed him.”

“Maybe he drove a different car.”

“Maybe. But the difference between Anders and Cullen is that people
can
place Cullen at the crime scene. And then there's the matter of motive. Donovan had humiliated him.”

“Cullen went looking for him to make things right. To apologize.”

The pipe came out again. He filled it, tamped it, lighted it. Some men look so damned comfortable with themselves when they smoke their pipes. Cigarettes are for nervous, uptight people. Like me most of the time.

“And there he sits, Sam. He can't help me and he can't help you. And he can't help himself. He just sits there or lies there and he's beyond reaching.”

The pipe smoke was almost exhilarating. I wanted to run right down to the tobacco shop and buy myself one. A good one. One that would make me look serious and contemplative. People whispering behind your back, “That little bastard is a genius.”

“So you're fixated on Will.”

“Sam, give me somebody else to be fixated on and I'll jump right across.”

I slapped a mosquito with so much force against my cheek that I could feel pain in my forehead. A mistake. I didn't want one of those military hospital headaches.

“Bring me what I need and Will's a free man.”

“You don't really believe he's guilty, do you?”

“Now you don't really think I'd give you an honest opinion on that, do you? I'm not very bright but I'm not dumb enough to say that to his lawyer. We go to trial and you put me on the stand and make me say that I told you I didn't think he was guilty—”

“Then you do think he's innocent.”

“He could be but right now I'd have to say that he looks guilty. I keep telling you to look at the evidence. You keep denying any possibility that he's guilty. But if you could be even a bit objective—”

“I think I can be. I think I am.”

“Well, I hope for your sake you're right. Because otherwise I'm afraid you're wasting your time.”

And with that he stood up with his pipe and his skeptical police eye and reached out and offered me his hand.

“If you come up with something new—”

“I'll let you know.” I almost said “Paul” but I was not going to give in to that.

I watched him walk to his car and then we exchanged a wave and I went back inside to the civilizing effects of air conditioning.

Kate was the star. You couldn't not watch her. She was four and dressed in a blue sweatshirt with a cartoon cat on it. Presumably the cat was from a Saturday morning show sponsored by one cereal or another. She was possessed of amused blue eyes and blond hair that looked so soft it would probably disintegrate if you touched it.

Nicole was five and intensely serious. Her dark hair and dark eyes were almost perfect matches for her mother's. Every once in a while as we ate she would fix her eyes on the wonderfully childish Kate with a disdain befitting royalty.

Maybe it was because of the green linen tablecloth and all the darker green dishes and coffee cups and cloth napkins that I had second helpings of roast beef and mashed potatoes. It had been quite a while since I'd had a family meal.

Then as the sky in the dining room windows turned into violet night, Mary announced that it was time for the girls to take their baths and get ready for bed.

I got kisses from both the girls. Kate's was earnest and a little sloppy. Nicole's was dry and quick

And just then I realized that in her quiet and proper way there was something like sorrow in those dark eyes of hers. And then I thought—I catch on quick—of what she'd been through with her parents these past few years. The rancor and anger. Maybe Kate wasn't old enough yet to completely understand what was happening. Certainly she would have understood the rage of both parents. That would have been terrifying. But Nicole was old enough—and certainly bright enough—to know the implications of all the torment. Her father would never live with them again. The people who had comprised her family would never be her family again. I gave her a hug.

Kate said she wanted to show me her cat drawing but Mary said some other time. “Kate's a genius at thinking up reasons not to take her bath.”

Then she hustled them off with Kate throwing “'Night” over her shoulder.

After Mary came back, I said, “You remember that job I had in high school washing dishes over at Romano's Pizza?”

“You're going to tell me that you miss washing dishes.”

“Not washing them, drying them.”

“I see. Well, I'm certainly not going to stop you.”

For the first five minutes in the kitchen we made out. My hands were all over her and she was all over me.

Then Kate called out for her and we had to give up those ferocious high school sex moments.

When she came back she said, “Kate couldn't find her walrus.”

“That sounds bad.”

“We were at the dime store one day and she saw this cheap little stuffed walrus and begged me to buy it for her. She was two. It's like some kind of lucky charm or something. Somehow it had fallen behind her bed. I got it for her and she gave me one of those hugs you can never forget.”

“You're a good mother.”

“I could be a lot better, believe me.”

“Oh, right, I forgot what a terrible woman you really are.”

“You've always kind of idealized me, Sam. I've always wanted to say that to you but the right time never came around. This is the right time. You boys in high school and college always said ‘She's the kind of girl you marry' or something like that. I think that's how you've always thought of me. I don't literally mean marrying me but that I was the ‘good' girl or something like that and Pamela was the bad one. But Pamela wasn't bad; she was just confused about her real feelings. And I wasn't all good, either. I lost my virginity when I was sixteen. I lied because I knew you'd lose respect for me if I didn't.”

Well, there you go. She'd told me that I was the first lover she'd ever had. And that was when we were out of high school.

This was the seventies. I indulged in liquor, grass and sex. I'd lost my religious faith, I'd lost most of my faith in the political system and I knew how corrupt our system of justice was. And if I had to sit down and count up the number of lies I'd told in my life, a fair share to women I'd cared about, I would be one hundred and thirty-four before I could stand up again.

But this hurt me, what she said.

“I'm sorry I lied to you, Sam.”

“Oh, that's all right.”

“Sam, I'm standing right here and I can
see
that it's not all right. I lied and I'm sorry. And it was only once and the next time I slept with anybody it was you.”

I proudly kept a book on feminism on my coffee table to show the young ladies I tried to charm that I was no Cro-Magnon macho moron. But here I was trapped in that old virgin trap. I'd always thought I was the first with Mary.

“Slap me.”

“What?”

“Slap me.”

“Sam, are you all right?”

“No, I'm not all right. I'm thinking like morons think.”

“And how would that be?”

“I don't want to say. That's why I want you to slap me. Bring me to my senses.”

“Either you're mad at me for lying to you or you're mad at me because you weren't the first.”

“The first.”

“The lying?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don't blame you.”

“And a little because of the second.”

“Because I wasn't a virgin when we finally slept together?”

“Yeah, a little bit of that.”

“Sam, please don't be like my brother.”

“Stan?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He has this wonderful girlfriend. And she really is wonderful. And he loves her. I've never seen him like this, but he won't marry her.”

“Because she's not a virgin?”

“Exactly.”

“He lost his virginity when he was fourteen.”

“He told
you
that, Sam?”

“No, my dad caught him in the back of his old panel truck.”

“God, I can't believe how he's been about this whole thing. About not being able to marry her. This is the seventies. Girls have as much right to have sex as boys. I know how it's killing him. One night he started crying about it. I just held him the way I did when he was little and he got hurt or somebody had said something mean to him. He'd never admit it but he's pretty sensitive. And then it wasn't funny or even ridiculous anymore because I could see it was tearing him apart. How much he loved her and wanted to marry her but couldn't because of this stupid idea he had in his head.”

“So is he ever going to marry her?”

“October fifth.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. He finally came to his senses.”

I took her arms and pulled her to me. Good Mary, bad Pamela. All good uncomplicated Mary and bad complicated Pamela. Reliable Mary and exciting Pamela.

But just as I was about to kiss this brand-new Mary, she stopped me. “One more thing, Sam. I know you think I kind of hover around you too much and I probably do. But you are sort of needy and that brings it out in me.”

“I'm needy?” My voice went up an octave.

“Sorta, sometimes, you know in little ways. But that's part of why I love you. You've helped me so many times, too. I'm just as needy as you are.”

Anger flushed my face—I could feel it—and then without realizing it I started laughing. “You weren't a virgin and you lied about it and now I'm ‘needy'? Whatever happened to that perfect little Mary I knew?”

“I'm right here, the real Mary, Sam. That other one was just in your imagination. And part of that was my fault, with the lie and all. But please, Sam, I don't want to be ‘good Mary' anymore. All right?”

Bad Mary was great.

If you couldn't get laid in 1971, you couldn't get laid at all.

This was according to just about every magazine, newspaper, and newscast you consulted for information on how the luckier half was living.

This was the era of free love, though that phrase had faded.

In the big cities they had sex clubs. You went in and had sex in your choice of many rooms. Sometimes you went alone and sometimes you brought your spouse. You could have sex by twos, threes, fours and just about any other number you wanted. And this was hetero sex or gay sex.

Swinging was also big. Suburban neighborhoods became the site of serious orgies. Marriages broke up, venereal disease ramped higher, and one prominent bestselling shrink said that if you wanted to have an affair it was none of your spouse's business. The thing was to please yourself. It took a while before someone pointed out that this was what you might call—if you wanted to hurt the shrink's feelings, the dear—sociopathic.

In Black River Falls we had one dance club/singles bar and that was The Retreat. A standard-issue bar had been gutted, a sparkling ball had been mounted on the ceiling, and a dance floor had been built. There was even a long mahogany bar perfect for leaning against if you thought you were cool enough for that particular pose.